


The Wrong Sort

by AgentExile



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, draco and harry are more alike than they care to admit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-16 01:49:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11243826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentExile/pseuds/AgentExile
Summary: Draco Malfoy has spent much of the summer following the Battle of Hogwarts holed up in muggle London while his family fights for its name. But summer is over.Draco returns to Hogwarts among a small group of ‘eighth years’, determined to keep his head down and complete his education quietly, but it’s not so easy. Plagued by nightmares, court notices, and intense media scrutiny, he finds himself drawn to only other person who might just be going through the same thing.There’s only one problem: Harry Potter is still his sworn enemy.





	1. The Northern Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first upload on AO3, go easy on me ^_^
> 
> TW: PTSD (Flashbacks, nightmares), references to torture/violence

   Draco awoke in the early hours, hands shaking and cold sweat drenching his body. His fingers scrabbled across the nearby nightstand for his wand, and without even a word, it lit up the room with a warm glow. The wand was new - Rowan, twelve and half inches, dragon heartstring core. It was nice, springy and friendly. Sometimes he liked it more than the one Potter had taken from him. Its light in the dark was now a familiar comfort.

   The nightmares came every night now. At first they had been intermittent. In the wake of the battle he had been so exhausted, so mentally drained, so stressed about his family’s future that the hours of sleep that he managed to accommodate were close to coma. But now, just one day off four months on, he could not scrape an hour without one of the episodes of his favourite series materialising.

   Episode 1: the same vision, over and over, of the Dark Lord torturing his parents.

   Episode 2: the lifeless body of Professor Burbage crashes down onto the same table at which he had enjoyed his childhood birthdays and Christmas dinners.

   Episode 3: the overpowering heat of the fiendfyre as he screams for his worst enemy to save him.

   Episode 4: a flashback so old it feels more like a dream itself, as he bleeds out in a Hogwarts bathroom, chest slashed into ribbons.

   Episode 5: the haunting screams of one of his oldest friends fills his ears, as Crabbe burns alive, inches too far away for Draco to help him.

   This last episode was playing again last night. He was getting tired of the reruns.

   He sat up, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He knew that there would be dark circles around his eyes, that his skin would be even paler than usual. It was a look he knew well - he remembered it from the months that his father had spent in Azkaban: they had aged him ten years.

   Draco certainly looked older. Still only eighteen, but with the eyes of a wearied old man. His only satisfaction was that the same eyes looked back at him from the photos of Potter. Perhaps their whole generation wore these scars - he’d know if he had ventured out into the wizarding world over the last couple of months. Instead, he had remained holed up in this same shabby London apartment.

   He stood up and moved around quietly, into the drab muggle kitchen. With a flick of his wand, the cupboards sputtered into action, spitting out a stained mug and cheap coffee. Draco put it down on the table and picked up the _Daily Prophet_ \- it must have been delivered in the early hours.

   _MACNAIR ARRESTED IN NORTHERN EUROPE._

_BORGIN AND BURKE RAID IS A BUST._

… and right at the bottom, a small banner:

   _STUDENTS RETURN TO HOGWARTS - TURN TO PAGE EIGHT._

He flicked through, pausing on page 5 when he saw his father, waving away photographers as he hurried into the courtroom again. _MALFOY TRIAL PRESSES ON._ Draco shook his head: it wasn’t a _trial -_ it was an _inquest_ \- even Shacklebolt had implied it was nothing more than a formality. Still, he had lost his appetite for news. He closed the paper, summoning his coffee and sipping it slowly.

   They would be back together in Malfoy Manor by Christmas. His father had sworn it. Still, two months ago he had been saying they’d all be home by August.

   He closed his eyes and dragged his knuckles across his skin. Two hours sleep at most. Perhaps he could sleep on the train. After all, who was he going to talk to? The only Slytherins that he knew were returning were Zabini and Pansy. Zabini’s mother had warned him against any further contact with the implicated Malfoy family, and Pansy’s lot thought they were a bunch of blood traitors. _Damned if you do, damned if you don’t,_ he thought to himself.

   In one of her more lucid moments, his mother had told him to ignore them all: keep his head down, get his NEWTs, show them all.

   He thought about waking her now, stopping by her bedroom on the way back to his own, but he knew that she was dosed heavily on the sleeping draught. It was kinder to let her sleep. She was not in good shape without her husband. Draco hoped that when he had left for Hogwarts, she would return to Malfoy Manor to be with him.

   He never doubted her love and he appreciated her coming to London with him to avoid the media circus, of course, but Draco found her gazing longingly into empty space more frustrating than helpful. In the early days she had told him over and over again that he was her priority, that there was nowhere she’d rather be, but how could he tell her he was just as unhappy as if he were alone?

   At that moment, he decided. It was early, far too early for the train, but he’d find some coffee shop in King’s Cross.

   He packed up the last of his trunk, and dressed in simple, neutral clothes. Once he had placed himself at the centre of every occasion, but now he wanted to fade into the scenery as much as possible. Satisfied, he penned a short note for his mother and left it on the kitchen table with the _Daily Prophet_. At the door, he paused, and jogged back to the table. He ripped out the page with the Malfoy story and crumpled it into his pocket. She didn’t need to see it.

   There would be no farewell to his hideout. He closed the door behind him quietly and edged along the filthy balcony. Down through the stairwell of the tower-block, holding his breath to handle the stench, and across the deserted courtyard. He thought about calling the Knight Bus, but a few stops on the Northern Line would afford a few more minutes of anonymity.

   And so Draco Malfoy made his way to the tube. He could almost have been mistaken for just another London commuter - only the trained eye would notice the gilded Hogwarts logo on the trunk dragged along behind him, and the magic wand casually concealed in his back pocket.

 

*

 

   The coffee shop was small and busy. Draco had managed to charm his way to a free espresso, taking a considerable amount of effort to play the role he’d once inhabited for years without difficulty, realising that he had no money to speak of, muggle or magic. The Malfoy accounts had been frozen since the beginning of the inquest.

   Still, he had found a quiet spot in the very corner. Nobody spared him a second glance. He relished this, already anticipating the scorn and hatred he’d be faced with soon enough. He realised that there was a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach: trepidation. It was unfamiliar. He’d felt afraid, of course, and stressed, absolutely. But this was different. A strange sort of nervousness. It was not paralysing or overwhelming like the feelings he was used to, but instead it hung around like a grey cloud, ever present but never really materialising.

   Then -

   _POTTER_.

   He looked down, hastily shrinking a little further into the corner and lifting up his muggle newspaper to hide as much of his face as possible.

   It was Potter. He was sure it was Potter. He knew that face like he knew his own.

   What would Harry Potter, the wizarding world’s favourite celebrity, be doing in a muggle coffee shop, hours before the Hogwarts Express was due? Was Potter even returning for the eighth year? He should’ve read that article…

   He held the paper there for what must’ve been several minutes, until he could be sure that Potter would have left, and then he lowered it slowly.

   _POTTER._

He was sat, one table away, watching him with an unreadable expression.

   Draco seemed to choke on air.

   ‘Hello, Malfoy,’ said Potter, with a vague wave that suggested he was at least slightly uncomfortable.

   Draco stared. ‘Uh… Potter. What are you...? Hello…’

   ‘I guess we both had the same bright idea.’

   Draco mused on this for a moment. He had never really considered that Potter might not be enjoying all the attention. But he knew himself the toll of the media hounding, the people shouting. Did it really make much of a difference what they were saying?

   ‘I guess so.’

   The awkward silence seemed to muffle the entirety of the busy shop.

   Up close, he noticed, Potter looked worse than in the photos. The battle-worn eyes were the same, but there was a tiredness to his whole face. He too had dark circles beneath his eyes, and a shadow on his jaw that suggested he hadn’t shaved. His skin seemed to be stretched a little too tight and every expression failed to reach his eyes.

   Draco wondered whether he himself looked worse than in the _Prophet_ ’s photos. What was Potter thinking of him?

   ‘Well I guess I should… er…’

   ‘Don’t leave on my account,’ said Potter.

   Draco couldn’t help but notice that he was drinking an _annoying_ drink. For one thing, it was iced.

   ‘Right. Um…’ Small talk had never been his area, even before all this.

   ‘So do you know who else is coming back?’ asked Potter.

   So they were really going to do this. They were going to have a conversation.

   ‘Um… me, obviously. Pansy. Blaise. You… clearly… but I don’t know who else. I’ve been… off the grid.’

   ‘I know. I saw you in the paper when you gave your testimony. Where have you - ’

   ‘So, who else?’

   ‘Er… Ron, Hermione…’

   _Of course._ He suppressed a sigh.

   ‘I think most of Gryffindor, to be honest. Neville, Dean, Seamus, Parvati… her sister too, and some of the other Ravenclaws. I don’t know about the Hufflepuffs.’

   The names didn’t mean much to Draco - the Gryffindors had always blurred into one.

   ‘Right.’

   Another silence.

   ‘Malfoy, I - ’

   ‘Potter, you - ’

   They stared at each other.

   ‘You first,’ said Potter.

   ‘I just… you don’t have to… You don’t have to be polite. We hated each other long before all this happened, I don’t see any reason why we can’t just… business as usual.’

   Potter looked down and shrugged. The gesture infuriated Draco. There was something strangely thrilling about the feeling. He hadn’t felt something as innocently exciting as rivalry for a long time. ‘What does _that_ mean?’ he said, imitating the shrug.

   He was sure Potter almost laughed. ‘I just… I honestly don’t have the energy for hate anymore, Malfoy.’

   Draco was almost disappointed.

   ‘I’m gonna go,’ said Potter, before he could speak. ‘I’m meeting Ron and Hermione.’

   Draco felt a pang of jealousy, and something else. He didn’t want Potter to leave. He wanted to spar. On the surface, he remained steady, shrugging again. ‘Sure.’

   Potter gave another vague wave as he headed out of the shop. Draco pretended not to watch him go.


	2. The Long Journey North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: References to PTSD; chronic pain symptoms.

Draco walked to the platform with that same unfamiliar trepidation. Still, he kept his head up, back straight, trying to embody the spirit of his father. Lucius had carried himself with poise and grace even when he was arrested following the Department of Mysteries debacle. If he could walk that way to Azkaban, surely Draco could walk to the Hogwarts Express.

   As he reached the barrier, he was struck by the scene before him.

   A harried looking mother was ushering two young twins through onto the platform, trying to handle their rolling trolleys.

   He had completely forgotten that there would be new students starting. He’d been so focussed on the prospect of returning for the eighth year that he’d entirely forgotten the rest of the school. Would the returning eighth years be expected to interact with the new eleven year olds? Would they earn house points? Get detention? Participate in house quidditch? He hadn’t even bothered to bring a broom.

   He was eighteen years old. By the end of the year he’d be nineteen. Could teachers really still boss him around?

   The thought unsettled him. He had already spent enough of the last year under orders.

   He enjoyed his last couple of seconds of anonymity before heading through the barrier and onto the platform, immediately ducking his head in spite of himself. Still, even with his gaze downcast, there could be no mistaking that white blond hair, and people were staring soon enough. A couple muttered darkly, but most just cast him contemptuous looks. Once upon a time, nobody would have dared look at a Malfoy that way.

   Draco tried to right himself, looking back up again and focussing straight ahead.

   He recognised a few of the Slytherins from the years below, and in amongst the faceless mass of other students he started to notice the returning eighth years.

   Zabini was chatting to a couple of Ravenclaws, and Pansy was stood between Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode. When she spotted Draco, Pansy turned her back pointedly. A little way away was Daphne Greengrass, a quiet but ambitious girl who had once been part of Pansy’s gang, but now she seemed disinterested in them, instead talking to her parents and her younger sister Astoria. When Draco passed them, she gave him a small smile.

   It was enough to buoy him.

   He walked the rest of the way to one of the last carriages with renewed vigour, head held high. He found an empty compartment, hoisting his trunk up into the luggage rack by himself, and sat down on the wide couch.

   So used to being surrounded by his school friends at this point, he examined the carriage as a soloist for the first time.

   Despite the families on the platform and the already raucous students on the train, the compartment was almost completely quiet with the door closed, and Draco was tempted to cast a further silencing charm in order to provide himself with the perfect conditions for sleep. Oh yes, there were advantages to travelling alone.

   He leant back against the headrest, closing his eyes momentarily and feeling the days of broken sleep beginning to catch up with him.

   However, every time he kept his eyes closed for more than a few seconds, he found himself with the return of the seeping paranoia, the alarming sensation that he was being watched or the subconscious readiness in his limbs should somebody burst through the door. Both kept him from any genuine attempt at rest.

   And so he sat awake, staring at the luggage rack opposite.

   At one point, a couple of moments before the clock struck 11, a few boisterous fourth years appeared in the doorway, complaining that everywhere was full. One look from Draco sent them shuffling away back down the corridor. It was good to know that he still possessed a certain intimidating edge.

   Or perhaps they just didn’t want to be seen with him.

   Or maybe they all whispered that he had spent a months under the tutelage of the Dark Lord himself and would know all sorts of terrifying curses with which to strike them down should they provoke him.

As if he would ever have the stomach to perform the curses he had watched the Dark Lord inflict on his wretched victims.

   He figured that he was safe once the train sputtered into action. He turned his face away from the windows, unwilling to watch the happy families wave goodbye to their offspring.

   Draco missed his parents.

   It was a nagging, constant weight pulling him down. For all their faults - and Draco was well aware of them - his parents had always given their heart and soul to him. Lucius had been there every day of his life, whether sat across the table at dinner or sending his advice by owl. No matter where he was in the world, no matter how busy, he always replied within hours. Narcissa had twice defied the Dark Lord, once reaching out to Snape and once concealing Potter’s life, just to protect him. Now with Lucius distracted by the inquest and Narcissa overwhelmed by their precarious situation, Draco had never felt more alone.

   Even when he had been at his lowest, his most afraid and most isolated, in the desperation of his sixth year and the following year of war, his parents had been there.

   Not now.

   So Draco turned away from the families, unable to watch the parents waving away their children, and to the door.

   Harry Potter stood there. The one person he wanted to see less than anyone, he had now encountered twice in one day.

   ‘It’s hard, isn’t it? When they aren’t there to wave you off?’

   Draco wanted to retort, but as Potter said it, he felt a creeping guilt at the countless times he had made light of Potter’s loss. He settled on: ‘are you following me or something?’

   ‘Everywhere’s full.’

   Draco actually laughed, for the first time in a long time. It was an unfamiliar sound, a little hollow but _real_. ‘Right. Everywhere is full so the most famous man in the world decides to sit with the _one_ person on the entire train who he _knows_ hates him. Excellent logic.’

   Potter shrugged, sitting down opposite him. ‘You’re also the one person who isn’t going to stare at me and interrogate me with wild, excited eyes for the next six hours. Believe it or not I’m actually sick of the idolatry. I’m guessing that’s not a feeling you’re familiar with?’

   Draco suppressed a smile, glad for the sparring. ‘You’d be surprised.’

   ‘Oh so you’re enjoying your new-found isolation?’

   ‘Touché,’ Draco muttered, looking back out of the window at the passing city. After a moment, he couldn’t resist turning back. ‘Where are Weasel and the - ’ he caught the word ‘mudblood’ before it escaped his lips, ‘- and the know-it-all?’

   ‘Prefects’ carriage,’ said Potter, faux-absentmindedly, having pulled out a book to pretend to read. ‘Shouldn’t you be there too?’

   Draco almost laughed again. ‘I think plotting to murder the headmaster tends to annul your prefect privileges.’

   ‘Right. Well if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot of reading to do.’

   _Guide to Advanced Occlumency._

‘What?’ said Potter, apparently still aware that Draco was looking at him.

   ‘Is there a class on Occlumency now?’

   ‘If I had just…’ for a moment there was a glazed look in Potter’s eyes, and Draco was instantly uncomfortable at the fact that Potter was going to share something genuine. ‘I had the chance to study under the best occlumens in the world and I threw it away. If I had paid attention I wouldn’t have…’

   ‘Your godfather would still be alive,’ Draco said, putting him out of his misery.

   ‘You know?’

   ‘Of course I know, the ruse was the talk of Death-Eater town. Besides, Black was my mother’s cousin.’

   Potter looked as though he’d been knocked off course a little. ‘Yeah. Well. I just figured I should finally learn a lesson from all that.’

   Draco mused over his next words, wondering whether to say them. _Yes_ , it was worth it just to remind himself that he was better than Potter at something. ‘You know I’m a pretty good occlumens? My aunt - ’ he omitted the Bellatrix part, though of course Potter would know, ‘ - taught me. I’m good at it. Maybe I should give you lessons.’ He meant it as a joke. He didn’t expect Potter to reply:

   ‘Sure. I’d like that.’

   Then, seeing Draco’s expression, Harry joked:

   ‘Maybe I can give you flying lessons.’

   ‘Fuck off, Potter.’

   After that they sat in a more familiar silence. Draco found his eyes drifting closed again, and he sat back for a minute in something close to relaxation. He felt strangely safe in his enemy’s company, the paranoia lessening slightly.

   ‘Draco,’ said Potter after a moment. Draco was struck by the use of his first name, and he opened his eyes.

   ‘What?’

   ‘I just… I wanted you to know that you don’t have to feel… awkward… about next week.’

   Draco narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s happening next week?’

   ‘I mean I get it if you don’t want to talk about it, or if you want to pretend it’s not happening, or whatever. I just wanted to be clear that I’m just going to tell the truth. No grudges, no favours. The truth. We all need a bit more of that these days.’

   ‘What are you talking about?’

   ‘The deposition. For your father’s enquiry. They’ve asked me to appear next week.’

   Something sunk to the pit of his stomach. Potter thought that he just didn’t know the date had been decided. He couldn’t show him that he didn’t know anything about this at all. ‘Oh, yeah, right. Fine.’ His brain was speeding at a thousand miles per hour. This hadn’t been in the papers. If Lucius or Narcissa had known, they did not tell their son.

   Harry Potter was giving testimony about his father.

   His family’s future could depend on his most loathed enemy.

   What was the truth? That his father had been a Death-Eater? That he’d hurt people and served the Dark Lord voluntarily and in sound mind? Or that his mother had saved Potter’s life, if only for the good of her own family? That he himself was a Death-Eater, branded with the blackened skin on his forearm to show it? That he had plotted to murder Dumbledore? Cursed Katie Bell and poisoned Ronald Weasley? That he had hesitated in Malfoy Manor, and not betrayed the identity of Potter and his friends?

   Was Draco going to find himself under trial? Would the whole lot of them end up in Azkaban? Or would Potter’s testimony exonerate his family?

   He felt sick.

   Furthermore, his arm was starting to twinge. It had been doing that for a while.

   He covered his left forearm with his hand automatically, scratching at the scar tissue through his shirt.

   When the Dark Lord had been alive it had burned almost constantly, a cacophony of signals and commands, and far more of an irritant than Lucius had warned him of. But if anything, the constant annoyance had been less disturbing than the pangs he felt now.

   They would hit suddenly, and when he least expected it. Perhaps it was the Dark Lord’s residual presence on earth, some sort of disgusting imprint left behind, determined to punish his followers for failing him. Sometimes they were the smallest itches or a minor discomfort, but other times they would wake him up in the middle of the night like a thunderbolt down his arm. He could be making a cup of coffee and all of a sudden the mug would drop from his hand as the pain ricocheted down to his wrist.

   He wondered whether the pains bothered the other remaining Death Eaters, or whether it was the relative freshness of his own mark that made it so temperamental. He didn’t want to worry his father, but there seemed to be no one else left to ask.

   He wished that Snape was still around. They’d had their moments of conflict, but he had remained a consistent and mostly benevolent force in Draco’s life amongst the Death Eaters, even defending him in front of the Dark Lord himself, and he would give anything to confide in him now.

   Instead, all he had was… _Potter_ , apparently.

   ‘Is it giving you trouble?’ Potter ventured, watching him.

   Draco released his arm, looking down.

   ‘You can trust me, you know. I’ve been there,’ said Potter when he didn’t reply.

   Draco looked up at the lightning bolt scar, just visible between the strands of Potter’s hair.

   ‘You didn’t choose yours,’ said Draco carefully.

   At that moment, the compartment door opened with an unnecessarily loud clack.

   Weasley and Granger surveyed the scene before them with familiarly unpleasant expressions. Draco tilted his chin up a little to assert himself. Potter looked up with a smile.

   ‘Alright Harry?’ said Weasley, with interrogative eyes.

   ‘Yeah,’ said Potter, ‘sit down, I’m sure Draco won’t mind.’

   _Again with the ‘Draco’._ And he most definitely did mind.

   Luckily, the two Gryffindors looked as horrified as he did. ‘Uh we’re gonna go sit with Neville,’ said Granger. ‘Come with us.’

   ‘Yeah, Potter, run along with your little sycophants. We all know how much you like to be the centre of attention,’ said Draco, with an upturn to his lips. Much as he wanted to deny it, he was doing it a little for Potter’s benefit as well as his own, offering him an out. After all, maybe he would need Potter on side if this deposition was to go well.

   Potter pulled a face at him, almost knowingly, while Weasley and Granger scoffed. They shared a look, before he stood up.

   For the second time that day, Draco pretended not to watch Harry Potter leave.


	3. Firewhisky and Flirtations

 

   Draco jerked awake as the Hogwarts Express trundled into Hogsmeade station. He had managed a miraculous hour or so, though he seemed to feel worse than before; his brief passage into slow-wave sleep left him groggy and more than a little disorientated. He gave himself a small shake, kneading his fingers over his eyes. The resultant stars flashing in his vision were replaced gradually by the familiar rooftops of Hogsmeade.

   When the train pulled to a halt, he took a slow, deep breath.

   Gaggles of students were filling the halls now, and Draco waited for the crowds to dissipate a little before finally edging out of his compartment, wishing once again that he could fade into obscurity. It didn’t help that he was a good head taller than most of the arrivals.

   Out on the platform, he was met by the familiar grating sound of Rubeus Hagrid’s voice. ‘Firs’ years over ‘ere!’

   He turned away, wishing that he had Crabbe and Goyle by his side to make a scathing comment to. Then, over the din of excited lowerclassmen, an equally familiar but dramatically more piercing voice. ‘Eighth years, over to me!’

   Draco looked up, towards the voice of Professor McGonagall.

   He sloped over in her direction, watching the gathering crowd of people he particularly disliked. He couldn’t help but catch Potter’s eye. Potter gave him a smirk that reminded him almost of himself. Draco smiled and looked down, wondering why Potter was suddenly making him so bashful. He realised after a second that McGonagall was talking, but Potter’s cocky presence was ever more distracting.

   ‘I appreciate that for many of you, returning to Hogwarts is an adult undertaking. This is no longer school, not a place for detentions and schoolyard rivalries, but rather a place for personal development, and for those of you looking to pursue professional careers, a chance to gain your qualifications. For that reason, I and my staff have decided to treat you eighth years as an independent class. You remain more than welcome to represent your houses, to earn house points and play on the school teams, but you will have you own separate dormitories, a separate dining table, and a few rather more… relaxed rules.’ At this, her eyes flickered to Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, then to Potter and his friends.

   Draco chewed at his lip, scraping his fingernails absentmindedly over his mark again.

   ‘If any of you have any questions, please approach your heads of houses at any time. There have, of course, been some new staffing appointments, but I’m sure you’ll all find your head of house quite familiar. My duties have been taken over by Professor Hagrid, while you students of Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin can speak to Professor Sprout, Professor Flitwick, and Professor Slughorn respectively.’

   Draco stifled a yawn, less because he was bored and more because his short sleep on the train had done little to ease his exhaustion. As her words sunk in, he could not decide whether this was all for better or worse. On the one hand, being surrounded by the students of his own year, who knew his entire sordid story, seemed even worse than fading into the crowd on the Slytherin table. On the other hand, he was quite thankful that he would be able to avoid some of the eleven-year-olds demanding to see a _real-life-dark-mark!_

   McGonagall seemed to have stopped talking, because the eighth years were falling into step behind her, as they headed over towards the familiar thestral-drawn carriages.

   As he stared at the skeletal horses, a sequence flashed before his eyes of all the people he had watched die. He squeezed his eyes shut as though this could shut away the memories. Prepared to travel alone, he climbed up on to one of the carriages, but found, to his own astonishment, that he was once again joined by _Harry Potter_.

   ‘Still stalking me, Potter?’ he said, in a tone that clearly indicated that he wasn’t serious. There was even a tinge of relief there.

   ‘Honestly, Draco, since Ron and Hermione got together, it’s gotten a bit sickly spending too much time in their presence.’ He jerked his head towards another carriage as they trundled into motion. They were kissing. Unpleasantly. Draco hadn’t need to see that. He looked away quickly.

   He saw an opening, suddenly, to ask a question that had been nagging him since Potter had walked into his compartment on the train.

   ‘So, I thought you were with the Weasley girl anyway?’

   Potter looked down awkwardly.

   For some reason, this sent a rush through Draco’s veins. He sat a little more upright, irrationally interested in Potter’s response.

   ‘We didn’t really work out over the summer. I think… with everything that was going on… we all got a bit… desperate, y’know? Not in _that_ way, I mean she’s great! I just mean we all wanted to make something happen so fast, knowing we might not have much time left. It all got a bit forced.’

   Draco nodded, thinking of his brief liaisons over the last couple of years. He hadn’t had time for a relationship, not with everything else going on in his head, but he understood that carnal need for human connection in the face of an empty future. ‘Everyone starts fucking at the end of the world.’

   ‘Yeah. Basically.’ Potter grinned at him.

   They both laughed.

   Draco felt more relaxed in his presence than he had felt in company for a long time. He searched his brain furiously for _why_. Perhaps it was because Potter was a _constant_. In all the turmoil, in the mess that all their lives had become, at the very least Potter was still just Potter.

   As Hogwarts approached, Draco felt a furtive rush. Exhilaration, sadness. He remembered the first time he had rowed his way up to the castle on those ridiculous boats, full of excitement and anticipation. His father had told him such stories of Hogwarts - he had dreamed that these would be the best years of his life. How wrong he had been. How quickly the dream had burned away with the ferocity of fiendfyre, blackening those hallowed walls.

   There was still a little of the childlike excitement, the thrill of wonder, and yet the castle looked different. Not physically, of course, it had been rebuilt near-perfectly. Rather it was as though someone had stripped the layer of gloss away, all the death and the pain of the events of last May ruining that innocence forever. McGonagall was right. They were returning here as adults, not wide-eyed youths.

   How could they ever expect to look at school in the same way after all that they had seen?

   He glanced at Potter, who was looking at the castle with a glassy expression.

   ‘Potter?’

   ‘Draco?’

   ‘What I said earlier, about business-as-usual… I just… I take it back. You were right. I’m too tired for the hate too. I kind of like… this.’

   There was flash of something like excitement in Potter’s eyes, but it disappeared as soon as Draco noticed it. Had he imagined it?

   ‘I like talking to you, Draco.’

   Draco stared. There was something in that voice…

   Draco had always been the silvertongue, the wordsmith, the casual flirt and the careful manipulator. Yet now he was the shy one, and Potter was oh-so-confident, an almost dangerously playful look in his eyes.

   ‘I always liked talking to you really. I like a good sparring match.’

   ‘Well,’ said Draco nervously, ‘anytime you want to spar, just give me a call.’

   Every word was loaded. Draco’s heart was thudding.

   They were interrupted as they pulled up outside the castle, and Potter jumped down from the carriage.

   ‘See you later,’ Potter said, suddenly awkward, as though he had only just remembered that he was Harry-goddamn-Potter. He gave an infuriatingly casual wave, as though he and Draco were nothing more than acquaintances, and hurried off to the security of his friends.

   Draco followed him and his cronies, not once taking his eyes off Potter’s back.

   He was becoming acutely more aware that their encounters were not occurring by accident. Was it a game? Something more sinister? He didn’t think so. Draco was an expert on such things.

   Since when had Potter burned so hot and cold? One second he was meeting his eyes with a conscious electricity, openly flirtatious - the next he was shrugging wearily, tired of the fight, of the _chase_ … Potter had always been dully lukewarm, like most Gryffindors; a ceaseless drone of self-righteousness and two dimensional character. Which ashes had this new Potter arisen from?

   Well, Draco was no stranger to mood swings these days. And trauma certainly changed people. Would he himself even recognise the Draco from before the war? Hell, he could barely recognise the Draco from yesterday.

   He was going to have to face it: he and Potter had wound up alone down the same rabbit-hole, and that fact wasn’t going to go away.

   _Shit._

*

   Draco spent most of the feast in something of a stupor, eyes downcast at the new ‘eighth year’ table. He sat a little away from the others, not caring if it made him look out of place. Enough people were staring at him anyway, he doubted that it made much of a difference.

   He closed his eyes during the sorting, allowing himself to drift into a half-sleep. It all seemed a little puerile now - _Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw!_ What did it even matter? He almost scoffed.

   Hadn’t the war taught them anything?

   Nope, the powers-that-be had clearly decided that arbitrarily dividing and pigeonholing impressionable young children, not to mention pitting them against one another, was still the best course of action.

   He ignored the opening remarks, a long speech from the new Headmistress McGonagall, and longed for the days of Dumbledore’s _nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak!_ Apparently, despite the endless Daily Prophet articles, the columns and tabloids and thinkpieces and photographs, there was still much to be said about the events of last summer.

   He stared down at his empty plate, but even as the food finally appeared, he felt little desire to eat.

   Still, he forced himself to choke down several bites, only because he had not consumed anything except a cheap black coffee and a free espresso all day. He was not quite at the point yet of completely forsaking his own existence. No, he would continue to eat, occasionally sleep, _breathe_ …

   Because Malfoys don’t give up.

*

Draco followed the rest of the eighth years, spearheaded by the remaining prefects, down the fourth floor corridor towards their new living quarters. It felt strange not to be heading down to the dungeons after the welcome feast, ready to catch up with his fellow Slytherins. He sloped along at the back, keeping his head down behind a couple of tall Ravenclaws, who seemed less than happy to have him so close to them. He didn’t care.

   ‘ _Nova_ _lux!_ ’ said the bossy voice of Granger up ahead.

   One by one, the eighth years disappeared seemingly into the wall. Draco was last. He discovered that they had stepped into a niche in the stone wall, usually guarded by a faceless suit of armour, who had sprung aside, lifting his heavy lance to allow them through a small entrance.

   Draco stepped through into the new common room, a way behind the others now.

   It was a small, round room, decorated not in house colours, but with banners bearing the Hogwarts crest. There were bookshelves with titles such as _Advanced Magicks_ , _So You Want to be a Healer?_ , and _Theoretical Transfiguration._ The other eighth years were dropping into squashy black armchairs, and Dean Thomas had already pulled open a cabinet to find an exploding snap pack.

   A couple of Hufflepuffs had headed up a smaller staircase, and Draco followed them, feeling little desire to involve himself in the socialising downstairs.

   He found himself in a small corridor with several doors leading from it. Each door had a nameplate, embossed in gold, bearing the name of just one student. It appeared that they now had their on dormitories.

   He found _D._ _Malfoy_ at the very end of the hallway, and took the small golden key that floated above the keyhole.

Draco let himself into the room, feeling a wave of relief as he saw the wide, four poster bed awaiting him. It had green and silver hangings. He felt another pang of remembrance for the Slytherin common room, several floors below, which he knew would now be filled with excited first years, and older students getting out the wizards’ chess and exploding snap, like his peers in the common room. Everyone in the castle was no doubt bursting with excitement except for him. And perhaps Potter.

   He sat down on his bed, noticing that his trunk had been brought up for him.

   Now that he was here, now that he was so close to sleep, the blanket of tiredness seemed to have lifted from him, and all of a sudden he felt wide awake. Somewhere, deep within, he felt a tingle of something like hope. Maybe this would be a good thing after all. _Hogwarts_.

   To his surprise, there was a knock on the door.

   He jumped a little, composing his face, and said ‘uh, yeah?’

   Harry Potter walked in. Who else? Draco wasn’t even shocked to see him this time.

   ‘We have to stop meeting like this,’ he said, but he could tell that his face was almost smiling.

   Potter grinned. ‘So your hangings are green? Mine are red, I thought I’d come see if it was house specific.’

   ‘I’m sure that’s what brought you here,’ said Draco drily.

   ‘Alright, I lied, I wanted to toast the new year.’ He held up a bottle of butterbeer in his right hand.

   ‘Oh please,’ said Draco, standing up and crossing to his trunk. He rummaged for a moment before drawing out the bottle of firewhisky. ‘We’re adults now, aren’t we?’

   Potter closed the door behind him and crossed the room in two paces, sitting down on Draco’s bed. Draco conjured two glasses and poured out the smoking liquid.

   ‘To one more year.’

   ‘To new beginnings,’ said Draco, fully aware that Potter was angling for something more than a drink. He was almost completely certain that _the_ Harry Potter was pursing him, and even now, after everything, Draco felt a buzz in his veins that was nothing to do with firewhisky.

  


	4. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C/W: This chapter opens with some non-graphic sexual content. It also contains flashbacks (inc. torture)/panic attacks.

   Draco slept more deeply than he had in months. Whether because of the reassuring weight of a body beside him, or because the firewhisky had dulled his brain, he did not know, but until the early hours he was finally deeply unconscious.

   _Until the early hours_.

   He stood up in something of a daze in the unfamiliar room, cringing his foot upwards at the velvety carpet, so used to splintering wood. Dawn was beginning to sun the room, and the bright light made him squint - he should have stopped after three drinks - and he groaned a little. His hand found the door to the adjoining bathroom of his room, and he pushed it open.

   Potter stood in the room, facing away from him, one hand pressed against the silver tiled wall. Draco froze, rooted to the spot.

   Potter was naked, and _worse_.

   His eyes dragged over Potter’s body, unable to look away.

   He was lean, tightly sinewed and tautly muscled in the all the right places. On his shoulder there was a jagged white scar, perhaps three inches long, no doubt from the wound Draco had witnessed himself during their fourth year, inflicted by the mean Horntail. Draco wanted to linger his gaze, mainly because he wanted to drag out his first glimpse of Potter’s ass for as long as possible, but he knew that he should move.

   He should absolutely not be witnessing this.

Because Potter was jerking himself off slowly, head forward and breath heavy.

   _Oh God_.

   Draco forced himself to uproot, turned on his heel, and then woke up with a flinching gasp.

   That was the first time that Draco Malfoy _really_ dreamed about Harry Potter.

   He woke up to a darker room than that in his dream - there was only one small window - but the hangover was real. He groaned loudly, turning over and finding the space that Potter had occupied on his bed now empty. Thank God for that - he was fairly glad to be alone right now. After all, Potter’s visit had left him with a pounding headache and an aching erection.

   _Perfect._

   He sat up and felt his stomach turn with a delayed reaction, as though he had left it lying on its side. He almost retched. How much had they drunk?

   He looked around for the bathroom, but of course there was no adjoining room in this reality, and he wasn’t going to go and throw up in the dorm bathroom where any of his peers could be lurking. He laid back down, wondering whether he should deal with his other problem instead, but the rising sickness in his stomach seemed to be doing most of the work for him.

   The rush of blood upon waking was depleting, and any thoughts of finding Potter in more compromising positions were being replaced by the image of himself, spending his first day back at school hunched over a peeling white basin, heaving up the burning residue of half-processed firewhisky.

 

*

 

   Over the next couple of hours he dozed intermittently, his rest now thankfully dreamless, but he did not deviate onto the side of the bed that he would now forever think of as Potter’s.

   He finally got up when it seemed late enough that breakfast would have started, but early enough that the hall would still be relatively empty.

   Focussing heavily on trying to keep his stomach steady, he stood, stretched, and looked around for something understated to wear. Simple clothes, simple robes. If not for the shock of blond hair, he could fade into the background.

   His head was pounding, but that was not unusual - he was more than used to headaches these days - but the nausea was a frustration. If he had his cauldron up here, he could whip up a Settling Solution in no time, but his cauldron had been taken down to the dungeons, and there was no way he was running to Madam Pomfrey for help.

   He slipped out of the room quietly, heading down the hallway to the boys’ bathroom without encountering anyone, but when he pushed open the door he found himself face to face with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, who were dominating the mirrors as they shaved. They both stopped talking as soon as he walked in, and shot him accusatory looks.

   What exactly they were accusing him of, he wasn’t sure, but he was more than used to prejudgment these days, so he conjured a goblet lazily with his wand to fill with water from the tap before turning to leave; he’d find another bathroom on his way down to the Great Hall.

*

   He had been right - the Great Hall was almost empty. Most of the early risers were first years, clearly excited for their first day at Hogwarts.

   Draco put more on his plate than he had eaten in days, determined to soak up the alcohol in his system with as much grease as possible. Eggs, bacon, sausages, toast… There was coffee, too, which he poured for himself black.

   There were only a couple of other eighth years at the table, both Hufflepuffs, to whom Professor Sprout was speaking, holding out new schedules. Sure enough, when he had satiated his hangover a little and cleared his plate, Professor Slughorn appeared, hobbling over to him. He carried a pronounced limp now, something that he had picked up during the battle.

   ‘Ahh, Mr Malfoy,’ he wheezed, ‘up bright and early I see!’

   Draco shrugged, drinking some coffee and trying to ignore the throbbing in his head.

   ‘Well, I’m here to discuss your new timetable. I know that you continued Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Arithmancy to NEWT, but of course I would understand if you would like to make some alterations to these options. Obviously given the circumstances of your sixth year, and indeed the absence of real education last year, your professors are happy for you to advance despite your recent academic troubles. With OWL results like yours, it seems that most all options would be open to you, should you apply yourself once more.’

   ‘Cool. Those subjects are fine,’ said Draco dully.

   ‘Quidditch tryouts - ’

   ‘I’m not interested in Quidditch.’

   Slughorn surveyed him for a moment, and Draco saw something bordering on pity in his eyes. He clenched his fist on the table.

   Slughorn touched his wand to a piece of parchment and handed the timetable to him. ‘Your classes will begin this afternoon then, with double Arithmancy. Mr Malfoy…’

   That look again.

   ‘You know that as your head of house, my office door is always open. If you want to talk about anything, or have any concerns… After the last year, I would understand…’

   ‘I’m fine,’ said Draco calmly. He was well used to saying this, having spent the entire summer lying to his mother again and again.

   ‘Alright, Draco. I’ll see you in potions class then!’

   The hall was starting to fill up, and Draco spotted a rather haggard looking Potter walking alongside his friends. Draco’s face flushed red automatically as he recalled his dream, and he felt a buzz in his veins, so he forced himself to look down at his schedule before Potter caught him staring.

   Did he _desire_ Harry Potter? It was normal to have dreams about people you didn’t like, right?

   No, it was no use, he definitely felt _something_ for Potter.

   He’d known that he found his foe attractive since the day he’d realised he liked boys as well as girls, of course, but that could hardly be helped. _That_ had never translated into voyeuristic dreams and a flutter of a heartbeat every time he saw him. Something had changed.  

   When had it happened?

   When Potter’s hand closed around his arm in the Room of Requirement, saving him from the horrifying fiendfyre? When Potter had sat down in that drab King’s Cross coffee shop? When he had realised that Potter alone looked as wearied and battleworn as he did?

   He was distracted from his thoughts when the post owls arrived, bringing with them a surprisingly large amount of mail for him.

   ‘What the…?’

   He pushed aside some of the flurry of owls that had descended around him, snatching at one letter and tearing it open.

   Sickness rose up to his throat again. It was _hate mail_.

   He slammed the letter down, only one line in. He didn’t need a stranger’s handwriting to tell him that he was a disgusting Death Eater, a monster, a criminal who should be locked up in Azkaban. He already knew all that.

   ‘Fuck off,’ he muttered at the owls, and luckily, the more that he ignored them, the more that they seemed to grow bored and leave their letters discarded on the table. He took the Daily Prophet from one, managing to negotiate a knut into the pouch on the barn owl’s leg. His own eagle owl, Augustus, was nowhere to be seen.

   He opened the prophet, ignoring the people staring at him and the departing owls.

   Immediately, he wished that he hadn’t.

   _DEATH EATER THORFINN ROWLE APPREHENDED IN NORTHERN IRELAND_.

   The flashback hit him before he could even close the paper.

   _‘Draco give Rowle another taste of our displeasure…. Do it, or feel my wrath yourself_!’

   The Dark Lord’s voice was as clear and piercing as if he had been standing there beside him in the Great Hall. High, cruel, dangerously playful.

   Draco could feel his chest tightening in on itself, and he forced himself to stand, taking a few quick steps towards the double doors. _No_ , he would not fall apart here - not in front of all these people who so desperately wanted to see it happen.

   ‘ _Crucio_!’

   He staggered back against the wall outside the Great Hall, causing a couple of passing Ravenclaw third years to look at him in alarm.

   He didn’t feel the pain that he had felt then, the spread of fire into every nerve of his body, but the fear was as familiar as an old friend. He saw himself doubled over, knees dropping to the stone floor of the long, fire-lit room. He saw himself staring down the Dark Lord’s wand, cold sweat on his face.

   ‘ _Now, Draco, or shall we bring your mother in here to offer you some more motivation?’_

   He saw Rowle’s prone, desperate body, and felt his former self stand on shaking legs, wand raised. ‘ _C… Cr…’_

‘ _You have to mean it Draco.’_ The memory of the Dark Lord’s icy breath on his ear was too much.

   ‘ _Crucio!’_

   He tortured Rowle, hand trembling around his wand, a tear from his eye mingling with the sweat on his face. But he couldn’t keep up the spell, and Rowle’s writhing body fell still all too quickly.

   ‘ _Do you need some lessons, Draco_? _Let us practice. CRUCIO!_ ’

   ‘Draco!’

   Someone was shaking him. It wasn’t from the memory. The voice was warm, tinged with concern.

   The Dark Lord wasn’t torturing him. The Dark Lord wasn’t forcing him to torture Rowle. The Dark Lord was gone. And his vanquisher was now shaking him, eyes level with his.

   ‘Harry,’ he choked. It was the first time that he had called him by that name.

   He stared into the green eyes, blinking away the blur from the water in his own, as he tried so hard to suppress it.

   ‘Do you need us to get Madam Pomfrey?’ chanted a couple of Hufflepuff girls, no doubt more out of concern for Harry than for him.

   ‘No!’ said Harry, a little fiercely.

   They scurried away.

   ‘Come on, get up,’ said Harry. Draco hadn’t realised that he had slid to the ground. Harry seemed to have pushed him into one of the niches behind the suits of armour, because they were remarkably well hidden from most prying eyes. Gratitude flooded his body.

   Draco couldn’t seem to move. He was completely paralysed by the memory, still replaying in his mind.

   ‘It’s alright, Draco, he’s not here.’

   Draco nodded, closing his eyes and resting his head back against the wall. ‘How did you… why were you…?’ He couldn’t seem to finish a sentence.

   ‘I saw you leave your schedule. I came to find you in case you needed it…’

   It was a fairly weak excuse, but Draco was nothing but thankful that Potter had followed him this time.

   He realised, after a moment, that his hand was clenched around something soft. He opened his eyes, and saw that he was gripping the sleeve of Harry’s robes, holding him in position. Harry didn’t seem to mind. Draco flushed; how long had he been grasping it?

   When he forced himself to let go, Harry held his fingers with his.

   ‘Breathe,’ he reminded him. He rummaged in his robes with his free hand and retrieved a small bottle, tipping out a capsule into Draco’s hand. ‘They prescribed me these at St Mungo’s after the battle. They don’t stop the nightmares, or the paranoia, but they do help with the panic attacks.’

   Draco continued to stare at him, then took the pill. ‘Thank you.’

   Harry had the nightmares too; the paranoia; the panic attacks.

   Draco had felt alone for a very long time. But now there were two of them.

   Managing a weak smile, he said, ‘so, when you do want to start those Occlumency lessons?’

*

   They used an empty classroom - Harry had vehemently refused to learn in the dungeons, where Draco thought they would be less likely to be disturbed - while the rest of the students were at dinner. Neither of them felt like eating after the draining first day, not helped by their heavy night the eve before, and hopefully everyone would be too excited discussing the first day back to notice their absence.

   Harry had approached Professor McGonagall during their Transfiguration class - apparently she had elected to continue her teaching duties even though she was now the acting headmistress - and she had assured him that the school curfew would not apply to eighth years, so long as they did not disturb other students after hours. That meant that they could stay all night if they needed to. Draco tried not to let his imagination run away with what that might mean.

   Harry looked nervous, pushing the desks away from the centre of the room slowly as though to delay the inevitable.

   ‘So you just never got it… occlumency, I mean?’ said Draco, wanting to break the uncomfortable silence.

   ‘I don’t know. I mean I was trying to block out Voldemort, and things were different with him, I guess… But Snape could always get into my head too. And Dumbledore, I’m pretty sure. And now there’s a thousand and one reporters who’d give anything for a few minutes in my head; I feel like it’s something I should probably master.’

   ‘Fair enough. It certainly makes you feel a little more… secure.’

   ‘You could keep out Snape, right? And he’s the best Occlumens… _was_ the best Occlumens in the world. And Voldemort? He might just be the best Legilimens ever.’

   ‘Yeah, well, I guess I had to be good at _something_. Dumbledore was the hardest, though, I could only keep him out superficially. Even when I could block him from my thoughts, he could still read my _mood_ , y’know? He could still see what was underneath.

   Harry nodded.

   Draco took off his cloak to free up his arms. Harry did the same. He looked more vulnerable in his crumpled shirt and sweater, less Harry-Potter-Defeater-Of-The-Dark-Lord and more I-Don’t-Know-What-I’m-Doing-Harry. As he watched, Harry undid his Gryffindor tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, as if to give himself space to breathe.

   ‘Voldemort used to go into your head?’

   ‘On occasion.’

   ‘Not very pleasant, huh? I’ve been there.’

   ‘Snape was worse,’ Harry said coldly, but then he looked a little ashamed of himself. ‘I just don’t… I don’t like people poking around in my head.’ He looked now almost… frightened.

   ‘If you want me to stop, you tell me, alright?’

   There was a charged electricity in their eye contact.

   Harry nodded.

   Draco knew the extent of what this would cost Harry, knew that his very soul had been violated by the Dark Lord and that to offer his mind up to Draco in such away was an act of trust not to be underestimated. He remembered the exhaustion of allowing his aunt Bellatrix to invade his brain again and again and again until he could barely stand, until he could barely speak, until he could stop it. A cruelty, but also a gift. Now he had to do the same to the anxious looking man in front of him.

   ‘Alright, I want you to take all your emotions, all your fears and anger and love, and push it away. Just for a moment. You’re not losing any part of yourself, you’re just lending it to someone for a minute. Imagine all the pain and the ecstasy and _believe_ that it has happened to someone else. All your memories, all your feelings, are theirs. You are just an empty vessel, a shell. You need to disassociate yourself completely.’

   Harry was screwing up his forehead in concentration.

   Before Draco even said the words, he knew exactly why this would be so difficult for Harry. For Draco, suppressing emotions, projecting a different person, was second nature. He changed skins as easily as a snake. But for Harry, who wore his heart on his sleeve and let his love rule his life? Draco wondered whether he would ever truly be able to master Occlumency.

   ‘Ready?’

   ‘No, but let’s do it.’

   ‘One… two… three… Legilimens!’

   For the first time, he did something that he never could have imagined himself doing. Unprepared for what he might find, Draco entered Harry’s mind.


	5. Occlumency Lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Brief mentions of past abuse and violence/PTSD

   It was a very different feeling at the other end of the incantation.

   Harry’s thoughts did not spell themselves out before his eyes in neat lines, and the memories did not play like the replays in his own nightmares. Instead, Draco found himself exposed to a cacophony of information, far too much to negotiate easily. He had never imagined that legilimency could be just as taxing on the perpetrator.

   Or perhaps that was a problem exclusive to invading Harry Potter’s mind, because if Draco thought that _he_ had seen some shit, it seemed he had _nothing_ on Potter.

   He caught himself on a particularly vivid recollection. It was an unfamiliar man, who he guessed could only be Harry’s uncle, forcing a crying six or seven year old Harry into a small, dark cupboard, slamming the door and bolting it, plunging the child into darkness. When the light switched on, Harry was in a dark, familiar basement.

   It was Malfoy Manor. Draco forced his gaze to stay on this memory. Weasley was there, with something like a silver cigarette lighter in his hand, and their eyes were directed to the ceiling. Somewhere up above, Granger was screaming. Draco almost lost his hold on the spell - he remembered that scene all too well from his own memory. He forced himself to press on.

   Sirius Black, falling through a strange, floating veil. One of the Weasley twins, dead-eyed amongst the rubble. The small, knobbly body of a house-elf; a house-elf that Draco had known long before Harry.

   Only when he heard a distant groan in his ear did he remember the very reason for this mission into Harry’s mind. He felt a sudden, seeping guilt. He had forgotten all about teaching Harry occlumency, far more distracted by his interest in his memories.

   He lifted the enchantment instantly.

   His return to the classroom was unsettling. The lamps were too bright in comparison to Potter’s murky memories, and to stand in their empty classroom after what he had just witnessed felt strangely inadequate.

   Harry had deviated to the side of the room, bent over one of the desks and breathing heavily.

   Draco shifted awkwardly for a moment - he never had been very good at taking care of people. ‘Er… sorry. Are you okay?’

   After a moment, Harry said, through his teeth, ‘yeah, I’m fine.’

   ‘We don’t have to - ’

   ‘Let’s go again.’ Harry turned back to him with a renewed figure, jaw set.

   Perhaps against his better judgment, and maybe, though he would never admit it to himself, out of curiosity, Draco agreed to continue.

   ‘ _Legilimens!_ ’

   He penetrated Harry’s mind twice more.

   The first time, memories from his childhood swam to the forefront again. He was hit at school; he was kicked by a sneering boy, who reminded Draco dangerously of himself; he was abandoned in a park as a toddler, collected only when the sun had gone down by his aunt and uncle, roaring with laughter in the car. Then memories from the war, some of them familiar to Draco, others that seemed to take place in strange, random locations. Weasley, splinched and bleeding in a forest clearing. Dementors prowling in the depths of the Ministry. A terrifying phantom-like vision in a narrow, dark entrance-hall.

   ‘Again.’ Harry had grit, he’d give him that.

   The third time, the he felt the first sign of Harry’s resistance. The memories began to blur, jumping from one to another, muffling their dialogue. Draco pressed harder.

   A memory that could only be Harry’s father - they looked so alike - and a younger Snape. The older Potter taunted Snape, so cruelly that even Draco felt a glimmer of pity. He felt Harry’s heightened emotion at this memory, but that only strengthened the image. He didn’t want to watch this. He forced himself to delve onwards, but the visions only worsened. Harry and the Weasley girl, shouting at each other in a small, cramped room, a scene that made Draco feel disgustingly voyeuristic. An adolescent Harry in his Triwizard robes, tortured in a graveyard by Voldemort. And lastly, Harry stood alone in the Forbidden Forest, eyes only for the Dark Lord. _‘Avada Kedavra!’_

Then death.

   It was so pervasive, so all-consuming, that Draco withdrew involuntarily this time.

   He reeled backwards, feeling his back hit the stone wall. It was a moment before he remembered that they were both still alive.

   Harry had fallen to his knees, a hand over his face.

   Draco stared.

   There had been rumours about the events in the forest, but the truth had never reached the press.

   His mother had told him what she had seen - the Dark Lord casting the killing curse, and Potter falling. But when she had approached him, the spell had failed, _again_. Harry’s pulse pounded on.

   The boy who lived. _Again_.

   Except he hadn’t. Harry _had_ died. Draco had felt that as purely as he had felt anything in his life. Harry Potter had _died_ , and nobody even knew. The spell hadn’t failed, or rebounded like it had before. Something else had happened in that forest. Something dark.

   ‘Again,’ said Harry, his voice shaking.

   ‘No,’ said Draco, without even thinking about it.

   ‘Draco, please.’

   ‘ _No_. Too many attacks in succession don’t help the training,’ he lied, ‘you need to rest.’

   Much to his surprise, Harry didn’t fight him. He slumped, both hands on his knees now, breathing shallow and uneven. Draco crossed the room, crouching down beside him, just as Harry had sat with him earlier.

   ‘You did well,’ he lied again. ‘I could really feel your resistance that last time. I could barely see anything.’

   When Harry didn’t say anything, Draco took a steadying breath and put his hand out onto his shoulder.

   To his surprise, Harry automatically leant into the touch. His eyes were closed, sweat beading his brow, dark hair stuck to his forehead. His red cheek rested against Draco’s cooler, pale fingers, breath hot and irregular against his skin. The sensation sent a rush up Draco’s arm.

   For a minute, they stayed in that position, as though neither of them wanted to acknowledge its strangeness.

   It was Draco who moved first, but only to lift his left hand to the back of Harry’s neck, grasping him with what he hoped was a reassuring touch. ‘It’s okay, come on. You did great. We should get you something to eat.’

   ‘I don’t want…’

   ‘I don’t care what you _want_ , Potter - I’m the teacher, remember?’ Draco said, his lips curling into a smile. ‘You have to do what I say.’

   To his great relief, Harry laughed weakly.  

   ‘Alright, Professor.’

   Draco released his hold on Harry, moving to grip his elbow instead. They stood together, swaying slightly on the spot.

   If any other student had walked into the classroom, they would have probably balked at the bizarre scene. Two star-crossed foes, almost arm in arm, both clammy and unsteady on their own feet. The hero was flushed, hands shaking. The villain was even paler than usual, and blinking away exhaustion. They walked the room together, stopping to pick up their cloaks. Both were slightly awkward, gritting their teeth and feigning stability. Hero and villain, perhaps more alike than either would ever have cared to admit.

*

They met Professor McGonagall a floor down.

   ‘Merlin’s beard!’

   ‘Evening, Professor,’ said Harry, standing up remarkably straight given his weakened state. Draco was impressed.

   ‘Mr Potter! Mr Malfoy! I said that you could use empty classrooms for spell practice, not duelling! I know that these last few months have been challenging, and I know that the two of you have never seen… eye-to-eye… but really! Surely you could find some other way to exercise your feelings?’

   Draco bit back a laugh, and he was fairly sure that Harry was doing the same. ‘We weren’t duelling, Professor, I swear.’

   ‘Then why do the two of you look like you’ve been on the wrong end of a blasting curse?’

   ‘We were…’ Draco flickered his eyes to Harry’s, wondering whether he would want anybody to know about their classes. ‘We were just working out some issues. It wasn’t physical, I promise.’

   McGonagall surveyed them both carefully, apparently satisfied by the fact that they were both in possession of all their limbs and standing in reasonable proximity without killing each other. She sighed. ‘I never did know quite what to do with the pair of you.’

   ‘We’re just going to go and get some dinner, Professor,’ supplied Harry.

   ‘Dinner? Dinner ended two hours ago, Potter!’

   They both groaned.

   McGonagall looked to Harry, cocking her eyebrow. ‘I’m sure that that house-elf of yours could rustle something up, Potter. Now, I have corridors to patrol. Make sure to get plenty of sleep, both of you - you have Transfiguration class first thing tomorrow morning.’

   They both groaned again, but only briefly, before darting away from McGonagall’s severe gaze.

*

   Draco and Harry had both regained most of their composure by the time they reached their new common room. Draco offered to enter a few minutes after Harry, lest his friends discover their new alliance, but Harry scoffed at this, pulling him with him.

   Almost all of the eighth years were still awake, playing gobstones or looking over their first day notes.

   Everybody turned to look at them.

   Draco shifted uncomfortably, determinedly not looking at Weasley and Granger.

   ‘Bloody hell, Harry! Oi, what did you do to him?’

   Avoiding Weasley had never been that easy. The redhead was up in his face in an instant.

   ‘Leave it out, Ron,’ said Harry, surprising Draco. ‘I just want to go to bed.’

   Draco sidestepped the irate lout, though he kept his hand on his wand in his robes pocket. He headed straight for the dormitories, thinking about the set of arithmancy charts in his bag awaiting his attention, and the two rolls of parchment that Professor McGonagall had already set for them. Legilimency had taken too much out of him for homework.

   He noticed that Harry was following him, but he did not turn around, allowing him to follow all the way to his dorm door before turning coyly. ‘Don’t you have you own room, Potter?’

   ‘I thought you’d want to make sure I carried out all your instructions, _Professor_.’

   Draco eyed him. The words conjured up the image of his dream the previous night, and suddenly he was forgetting his exhaustion from earlier, thoughts replaced by all of the instructions that he wanted to give Potter.

   ‘Right, dinner.’

   ‘Kreacher!’ said Harry, and with a loud _CRACK!_ a house elf appeared. ‘Kreacher, this is Draco.’

   The elf bowed so low that his nose touched the ground. ‘I remember Master Malfoy!’

   Harry looked at them both curiously.

   ‘Kreacher came to our house once,’ said Draco, faltering as he remembered the circumstances. ‘Bl - your godfather… sent him away.’

   ‘Oh.’

   ‘Kreacher,’ said Draco, turning quickly to him, ‘could you make something for Harry to eat? He’s had a rough evening, and he missed dinner.’

   ‘Of course, Master Malfoy! Master Potter!’ Kreacher disappeared.

   Awkwardness had set in. Draco’s rush of enticing thoughts a moment earlier were gone. If Kreacher had never come to Malfoy Manor, Harry’s godfather would probably still be alive.

   ‘Harry, I - ’

   ‘Come on,’ said Harry, pushing into the room as though it were his own.

   They walked together into the room. As though the awkward situation in the hall had been nothing, Harry dropped down on Draco’s bed with a groan. When Draco didn’t immediately respond, Harry seemed to sense his reticence. ‘I forgave Kreacher a long time ago, Draco.’

   ‘Do you forgive me?’

   He didn’t know what made him say it, and it wasn’t something he had ever even thought about. After all, until the last couple of days, Draco could not have cared less what Potter thought of him. And yet, all of a sudden, everything in his world seemed to balance on Harry’s answer.

   ‘I’m working on it.’

   Draco sat down on the end of his bed, nodding slowly.

   ‘What you saw… in my head…’

   ‘I won’t tell anyone,’ said Draco, quickly.

   ‘I know,’ said Harry, looking affronted that Draco even thought that he would question this. ‘I just wanted to say… you don’t have to feel… strange about it. I let you do it, remember. I _asked_ you to. You weren’t spying.’ He sat up, shifting over to Draco’s side.

   Draco turned to look at him, acutely aware that their faces were very close together.

   ‘I wanted to let you in.’

   Their eyes held for what could have been minutes.

   Harry made the first move, resting one hand down on Draco’s thigh, before leaning his forehead into Draco’s neck. It wasn’t the kiss that Draco had been picturing in his head, but it was an electric touch that he never could have imagined Harry sharing with him. Harry’s breathed against his collarbone, nestling his head against Draco’s throat.

Then, after another moment, he turned his head up, and before Draco could process what was happening, touched his lips lightly to the corner of Draco’s mouth.

   Draco did exactly the opposite of what he would have expected. He actually drew away. Harry looked horror-struck. ‘Oh _God_ , I’m sorry.’

   ‘No, no! Harry, I - I can’t. I want to. It’s just… I just spent the last few hours breaking into your head. You can’t think clearly about me right now. I don’t want you to do something you’ll regret tomorrow.’

   ‘I’m thinking clearly,’ said Harry, a hint of his old defiance creeping into his voice.

   ‘No,’ said Draco firmly. ‘It’s not healthy. Not after what we just spent the evening doing.’

   Every fibre of his being was snarling its displeasure. Draco wasn’t even sure why he was trying so hard to be sensitive. All he knew was that Harry was seeking validation from a man who’d just spent hours assaulting his mind, craving care from someone who had just hurt him. Draco knew a thing or two about processing emotional distress, and he wasn’t going to enable this. He wanted to touch Harry more than anything, but he needed to know that Harry really wanted him to, and that wasn’t going to be apparent until he’d at least slept off this latest trauma.

   He prised Harry away from him, astonished that the man who had been so strong earlier, carrying him through his panic attack, was now the one in such need.

   ‘Come on, let me get you to your bed. Kreacher will bring you some food. Come on.’

   Harry let himself be steered easily, something that Draco found just as concerning, but it wasn’t a battle he was going to fight that evening.

   As he deposited Harry in his own room, a little way back up the hall, Draco found himself staring at the closed door with clenched teeth.

   Harry had tried to kiss him. His fantasy had been an inch away from reality.

   _God_ , Draco was really going to hate himself in the morning.

  


	6. Summons and Scars

   Draco did not see much of Harry over the next few days; he had the distinct feeling that he was avoiding him. Still, after their foray into Occlumency, he could hardly blame him. Draco had seen more than he had ever wanted to see, and was fairly certain that it had been more than Harry had wanted to show him.

   He went around his business quietly, falling back into the school routine with more ease than he had expected. Defence Against the Dark Arts classes were a breeze, and he was exceeded in ability only by Potter himself, who was diligently avoiding his eye in classes. He stumbled his way through Charms and Transfiguration classes, working hard to catch up on the NEWT material he had missed the previous years, and all but threw in the towel in Arithmancy. But nothing was as bad as Potions.

   Draco had always excelled at Potions. Others had accused him of benefitting from Snape’s favouritism, but he knew full well that he was capable - _highly_ capable. But since everything that had happened, he seemed to have lost his grasp on the art. Potion-making relied on a clear mind, subtlety and precision. Everything that Draco brewed now seemed to turn to shit. _Kind of like my life_ , he thought to himself after one particularly disastrous class, in which he had melted a solid pewter cauldron.

   He returned to his dormitory without going to dinner.

   Lying back on his bed, he finally picked up the unopened letter on his nightstand, which he had been resolutely ignoring for three days. He knew what it would say. Potter had inadvertently forewarned him back on the Hogwarts Express.

   _Dear Mr Malfoy,_

_Please find enclosed the details of the Deposition Hearing of one Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. We request your presence at the Ministry of Magic at the date and time detailed._

_You may be asked to answer questions regarding your relationship with the subject. You may be asked to provide information regarding the activities of the subject. You are welcome to be accompanied by a legal representative should you wish._

_You are hereby warned that a failure to attend may result in a warrant issue to compel your attendance._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Gawain Robards_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

Draco threw the parchment down onto the bed and groaned out loud. The deposition was tomorrow. His mother had sent him a letter two days earlier.

   He looked up at the sound of a quiet knock on the door.

   ‘Yeah?’ he said, ready to go on the offensive.

   Harry was stood in the doorway. His eyes slid from Draco’s face, to the letter on the bed, then back again. ‘You got your summons, then? They sent me another letter too.’

   ‘Did yours threaten to _compel your attendance_?’ Draco said coolly, before instantly feeling guilty.

   ‘You know you’re not the one being investigated, right? Don’t stress yourself out about it,’ said Harry, walking into the room. He did not go and sit beside Draco this time however, perhaps wary of his tone.

   ‘Yeah, it’s not like I need to worry about my father ending up back in Azkaban. No big deal. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.’

   ‘Right, because my parents are dead.’

   Draco looked up. It wasn’t what he had meant.

   ‘Harry, I - ’

   ‘Walk with me,’ said Harry, jerking his head back at the door.

   ‘What?’

   ‘Come for a walk. It’s not going to make you feel any better about tomorrow sitting alone in this room. Let’s go for a walk. Everyone else is at dinner, it’s not like they’ll bother us.’

   Draco closed his eyes for a moment, contemplating the request. On the one hand, he had no desire to spend the evening wandering around the grounds, and was more than happy to stew for a while in his own ire. On the other hand, however frustrating it was that Potter could have this effect on him, he was so excited by the prospect of Harry actually _talking_ to him again that he felt powerless to resist.

   ‘Fine.’

   He picked up a sweater to pull over his shirt and followed Harry back out into the corridor. They crossed down through the castle undisturbed, skirting past the doors to the Great Hall quickly. The shouting inside was raucous, as loud and optimistic as it had been back in their first year. Perhaps the other students did not feel the constant weight of death in the air that Draco did. Perhaps they had not seen the rows of bodies that had replaced the house tables on that fateful day.

   When they stepped out onto the front lawns, they found that darkness had already started to fall. It seemed unnaturally cool for a September evening. Maybe Hogwarts had not yet fully recovered.

   ‘It looks different, doesn’t it?’ said Harry, nodding up at the castle.

   ‘Yeah, I thought so when we first got back,’ Draco replied without turning to look at it.

   Silence fell between them as they trudged down towards the lake automatically.

   Distantly, to their right, Draco could see the quidditch pitch. More to create conversation than anything else, he asked, ‘are you playing quidditch this year?’

   ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Harry, but his voice was empty of excitement. ‘I’m still captain. I’m supposed to hold tryouts this weekend. You?’

   ‘No. I didn’t even think about it.’

   ‘All seems a bit pointless now, doesn’t it?’

   Draco nodded.

   When they reached the water’s edge, they wandered over to a cluster of trees, and Harry sat down against one of the trunks.

   ‘I thought we were walking?’ said Draco, but he was smiling.

   ‘I barely sat down for a year. Give me this.’

   Draco sat down to his right, close enough that their shoulders bumped together.

   ‘Draco, I’m sorry that I’ve been so… weird,’ said Harry. Clearly, he had been waiting to say this.

   ‘What?’

   ‘The last few days.’

   ‘Oh, it’s cool,’ said Draco. ‘These days I mostly like it when people ignore me.’

   Harry chewed at his lip, looking out across the lake. ‘You still getting the hate mail?’

   ‘Somehow I don’t think it’s going to go away.’

   ‘You’d be surprised. They’ll get bored soon. Hermione got loads of it in fourth year.’

   ‘Granger wasn’t a Death Eater. She didn’t kill anyone - she didn’t _torture_ anyone.’ He hoped that Harry didn’t notice his voice crack.

   Harry looked down. ‘Yeah, well, still. They’ll get bored, I promise.’

   Draco didn’t say anything.

   ‘I wasn’t ignoring you. I just thought that you… wouldn’t want to talk to me after what I did.’

   ‘What?’ Draco turned to him, frowning.

   Harry stared at him, raising his eyebrows. ‘Are you really going to make me say it? The… _kiss_ , Draco.’

   ‘Oh, that,’ said Draco, smiling. ‘I thought you were angry with me for the legilimency.’

   ‘What? No. I asked you to do that.’

   ‘Why wouldn’t I have wanted to talk to you?’

   ‘Did you miss the part where I tried to kiss you?’

   ‘Did you miss the part where I said _I wanted to_? I just wasn’t going to do it with you in that state.’

   Harry stared at him. Draco wasn’t sure whether he regretted saying it. The words seem to hang very heavily in the air between them.

   ‘I thought you just said that to make me feel better.’

   Draco laughed. ‘When have I ever said anything to make someone feel better?’

   ‘So you did… want to?’

   ‘Did _you_ … _want_ to? Really?’ Draco countered.

   They stared at each other for a minute, grey eyes fixed on green.

   Then, possessed by some semblance of his former self, Draco moved. He closed the distance between them smoothly, kissing Harry lightly, almost chastely.

   He had delivered a fair few kisses in his life, but he had never been so acutely aware of the other person beneath his lips. He was mindful of every detail, overly aware, even self-conscious. He had never worried what the other person would actually _think_ of him.

   When they separated, Harry gave him an inscrutable look. Then, slowly, he said, ‘you can do better than that.’

   The challenge kicked up some of the old fire in him, and when he leant in the second time, the feeling was much more familiar. This time he moved with certainty, claiming the kiss rather than asking for it. His movement sparked a small laugh in Harry’s throat. If anything, it made Draco more confident. He threaded his long fingers in the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, and swung his bodyweight with him until he was almost leant over him.

   Harry lost his balance a little, falling back on his elbows, and Draco straddled over him, kissing him deeply and slowly. His free hand went to Harry’s neck, then to his collar, pushing his fingers just below the white shirt to trace at his clavicle. He dragged his nails at the skin above Harry’s heart, releasing his other hand from his hair to stroke assuredly down Harry’s jaw, fingers ghosting at his throat.

When he withdrew, he took care to nip his teeth ever so lightly at the vulnerable red of Harry’s lower lip. He took back his hands, even when Harry made a noise in protest.

   He didn’t ask whether that time was better. He didn’t need to.

   Harry stared at him with burning eyes, hair mussed up from his fingers and even wilder than usual. ‘If I’d known you could do that, I would’ve come to your room years ago.’

   ‘Oh please,’ said Draco, smoothing his own hair out and straightening his clothes, which had been disturbed by his sudden movement. ‘Everyone’s known I can do _that_ since about fifth year.’

   He knew his reputation perfectly well. It was perfectly cultivated, after all. Or at least it had been.

   ‘Do it again,’ said Harry, in what Draco assumed was his own attempt at an authoritative voice.

   Draco’s lips curled upwards at the corners. ‘No.’

   ‘You aren’t serious.’ Harry looked deeply affronted.

   ‘I’m deadly serious. You’re supposed to be speaking at my father’s deposition tomorrow. If someone sees us making out in the grounds it might raised concerns about the validity of your testimony.’

   ‘Can you not bring up your father when you’ve just had your hands on me?’ Harry groaned, but then he smiled with almost wicked eyes. ‘That being said, I might just accept bribery.’

   Draco cocked his head, watching him intently. After a moment, he said, ‘Nah, I’m not selling my soul to the devil. Not again.’

   Though his tone was light-hearted, his hand automatically went to his left arm.

   This didn’t go unnoticed by Harry.

   He pushed up his own shirt sleeve. ‘This is mine,’ he said, holding out his right arm.

   There was a long, white scar cutting a line down from the crook of his elbow. Draco looked at it with interest.

   ‘Wormtail did it. When he brought Voldemort back. _Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken._ ’

   ‘I didn’t know that.’

   Harry shrugged. ‘I doubt many people do.’

   Thinking back to the things that he had seen during their Occlumency lesson, Draco ventured, ‘there’s a lot of things people don’t know about you.’

   ‘I guess.’

   ‘They think they know everything.’

   Harry laughed at this. ‘Yes, yes they do.’

   ‘I thought I knew it all… back when we were kids. I thought I knew you. I think… it was only in sixth year that I realised. When I stood in that school, knowing that he was watching my every move, knowing that so many futures depended on my choices, I finally realised what it must have been like for you. The weight of the Dark Lord’s attention. It was heavier than I’d imagined. Even in the midst of everyone, I’d never felt so alone.’

   It was the first time he’d said it all out loud.

   ‘Well, you had Moaning Myrtle,’ said Harry, with a grin.

   Draco took his turn to laugh. Then, his hand shaking a little, he pushed up his left sleeve, pausing halfway as he considered changing his mind. Spurred by the sight of Harry’s scar beside him, he pushed it the rest of the way, revealing the ugly black tattoo.

   It seemed darker that usual. Perhaps it was just the shadow of evening. Or perhaps it sensed _Harry Potter_ , so close beside him.

   It was the first time that he’d ever shown the mark to someone outside of the Dark Lord’s circle. He fought the urge to cringe it away, holding his arm steady and trying to settle the sudden racing of his pulse as he felt Harry’s eyes on it.

   After a pause, Harry lifted his own arm a little, his right touching against Draco’s left. The two scars rested side by side, so similar and yet so different. It did not escape Draco’s notice that he and Harry probably looked the same, sat side by side in the grounds: so similar, and yet so different. One light as Harry’s scar, and one dark as the snake on Draco’s arm, curling it’s way around the skull.

   Their two separate paths seemed to weigh in the air around them. One good, one bad. And yet, they had both ended up here, in the same place, _together_.

   ‘It wasn’t our fault,’ said Harry, breaking the silence that had extended between them.

   Draco looked up at him.

   ‘What happened to either of us. The things both of us had to do. It wasn’t our fault.’

   Draco didn’t need to reply. For so long, he’d felt like a boy who’d made all the wrong choices. Now, Harry’s words rang around his ears.

   They did not move as night fell, shoulder to shoulder in the darkness.

   The two boys who’d had no choice.


	7. Meetings at the Ministry

Dawn rose on Whitehall with the promise of sun, light clouds dappling the early risers, briefcases in hand, as they rushed between buses and ducked towards the nearest tube stations. London went about its morning business with the usual urgency, and deep underground, far below the Jubilee Line, witches and wizards made their way to work.

   The foyer of the Ministry of Magic was thronging with activity, but the crowd heading for the elevators kept bottlenecking near the new golden fountain at the far end of the atrium. Everyone wanted to shake hands with Harry Potter.

   It was an unexpected, but not unwelcome, turn of events for Draco, who had expected to encounter the rage and derision of half of the wizarding world when he entered into the Ministry. Instead, most of the crowds pushed past him and his mother without a second glance, eyes alight with excitement at the prospect of sharing a split second moment with The Boy Who Lived.

   ‘Your tie, Draco,’ said Narcissa, leaning over to correct the knot for him.

   He didn’t move to stop her fussing, eyes trained instead over at the crowd around Harry. Besides, it was the most present that Narcissa had been for months, and her return to her old, mothering ways, whether genuine or forced, was reassuring.

   Harry was shaking hands with a wizened old wizard with a stoop. He was so small that he had to bend down to speak to him, and Draco watched as his dark hair fell over his eyes. Harry flicked it back with a jerk of his head. A couple of nearby witches giggled to each other.

   Draco rolled his eyes, but he did not stop watching Harry. Not until a large shape blocked his vision.

   ‘Photo for the Prophet, Mrs Malfoy?’ it sneered.

   Draco automatically stepped in front of his mother, straightening his back.

   ‘Of course,’ said Narcissa, adjusting her own posture and placing her hand on his shoulder.

   Draco wanted to turn around to look at her in astonishment, but her fingers held him in place, and the photographer was already snapping away. Conjuring what he hoped was his sourest expression, Draco looked to the camera. The flash left blotches in his eyes.

   When the man shuffled away, he pulled himself free of Narcissa’s grip and rounded on her. ‘What was that about?’ he said, bitterly.

   ‘Appearances matter, Draco,’ she said, a tinge of the familiar weariness entering into her voice, ‘he would have taken pictures anyway.’

   Draco seethed quietly, resuming his observation of all things Potter. ‘Where are we meeting father?’ he asked absentmindedly.

   ‘Level ten. Courtrooms,’ Narcissa answered shortly.

   ‘I thought he wasn’t on trial?’

   ‘Well where do you expect them to interview him? The café?’ she snapped. Then, her face softened. ‘It’s alright, Draco, we’ll be home together before you know it.’

‘Is he… going to be chained up?’

   ‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s been under house arrest, not locked up in Azkaban.     

   Draco watched as Harry detached himself from his admirers, and then had to fight the urge to swear under his breath as he realised that he was walking towards them.

   ‘Mrs Malfoy,’ said Harry, holding out his hand.

   Narcissa shook his hand, though the slightly pained expression on her face suggested that it was with great effort, under the eyes of the horde that had followed Harry. The crack of camera flashes rang out again.

   ‘Draco.’

   When their hands touched, Draco felt himself relax slightly. He hoped that the cameras would not catch the electricity in Harry’s eyes. He was sure that he felt Harry squeeze his hand a little, his fingers lingering, with a reassuring smile. Then his touch was gone.

   ‘I’m going to head to level ten. Would you like to walk together?’

   Draco knew that to his audience it would appear like a valiant effort to build bridges. He knew that to Narcissa, it wasn’t far short of blatant insult. None of them knew what Draco did: that Harry did not want him, and by extension his family, to face this walk alone.

   ‘Sure,’ said Draco, before his mother could answer, because he had noticed the resentment threatening to colour her features.

Their descent to level 10 was mostly silent, but just the presence of Harry on one side and his mother on the other was enough to settle Draco’s nerves a little. He had no idea what to expect from the deposition.

   The crowds were not permitted to follow them.

   A bored looking ministry official led them first through the lifts, then down a long corridor, then down a set of steps into another corridor, before stopping outside an incredibly ordinary looking door. Draco had expected something that would betray the room within, but it gave nothing away. A ministry usher was waiting for them with a roll of parchment flying threateningly towards them.

   ‘Please sign your name to confirm attendance!’ she said brusquely.

   Harry went first, conjuring a quill from nowhere, and signed his name.

   ‘Mr Harry James Potter,’ the usher said, to nobody in particular.

   Harry passed Draco the quill, his fingers brushing his hand slightly. Draco signed beside his name on the parchment.

   ‘Mr Draco Lucius Malfoy.’

   He held out the quill to his mother, but she conjured her own - a rather more elaborate peacock feather - with a sniff.

   ‘Mrs Narcissa Druella Malfoy.’

   The usher opened the door for them, and by his position, Draco entered first, taking a deep breath.

   Over the threshold, he found himself in a room that he had not imagined.

   There were no chains, no Wizengamot. If anything, it was like a rather large office, with a few robed ministry workers milling around. And there, over in the corner, speaking quietly to a wizard in a red velvet robe, was his father.

   As though he sensed his presence almost immediately, Lucius turned.

   Draco crossed the room in five strides, pushing past a couple of witches in his way.

   ‘Draco,’ said Lucius, face stretching into a smile. For a moment, Draco thought that he was going to shake his hand, but then Lucius pulled him into a tight hug, the likes of which he could barely remember.

   ‘Father,’ Draco responded, unable to keep the smile from his own face.

   Lucius looked tired, but otherwise mostly well kempt. ‘How are you?’ he asked, apparently forgetting all about his previous conversation and steering his son away.

   ‘I’m fine, father,’ said Draco, as honestly as he could.

   ‘How’s school?’

   Draco didn’t want to answer questions about himself; he didn’t want to talk about Hogwarts; more than anything he just wanted to find out how his father was. ‘It’s fine. But what about you? What’s been going on?’

   ‘Not so much,’ said Lucius. ‘I want you to relax today, Draco. Don’t worry about me. Don’t worry about yourself or your mother, I’ve made arrangements to ensure that you are protected. Just answer their questions honestly - I don’t want you lying in official proceedings. Don’t give them anything more than they ask for.’

   Draco nodded, a little frustrated by the lack of information, but Lucius had already turned his attention to his wife, and Draco had to shuffle away, feeling instantly intrusive.

   It wasn’t long before one of the other ministry ushers began directing them to seats. As they were moved around, Draco got a better look at the other witnesses who had been called up to make comments. With a jolt to his stomach, he realised that Professor McGonagall was there.

   He looked away quickly.

   There were two wizards who he did not recognise, as well as his mother and Harry of course, and, to his great surprise, the interim Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt.

   Lucius himself sat on a separate bench, alongside the red-robed wizard.

   A ministry panel took up most of the other side of the room.

   ‘Calling to order this Deposition Hearing. We are here to discuss the case of one Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. From the Department of Magical Law Enforcement…’

   Draco listened with little interest to the lengthy introduction, focussing more on his cufflinks. He wanted to look at Harry, but one of the unfamiliar wizards sat between them. The inquiry administrator droned on about the plan for the day, explaining that the panel could choose to address any questions they may have to any of the attending witnesses, as well as to Lucius himself.

   ‘Mr Malfoy, you were asked to bring with you your list of names and accompanying information.’ Draco looked up for a second before he realised that they were addressing his father.

   ‘We have brought the document,’ said the red-robed advisor.

‘Let the panel be reminded that Mr Malfoy has offered a lengthy profile on the Death Eaters known to him, and any wizards whom he knows to have connection to the Death Eaters, in return for immunity for his wife and son: Mrs Narcissa Malfoy, and Mr Draco Malfoy. If anybody objects to this agreement, please speak.’

   Narcissa’s hand gripped Draco’s tightly.

   Draco was looking furiously at his father, who was avoiding his eye. He had made a deal. He had made a deal without even discussing it with him. Lucius was selling his most valuable information with no regard for his own situation, information that he could have used to buy _himself_ a better deal. Had his mother known? Surely.

   Draco pulled his hand free, ignoring her exhalation when nobody on the panel spoke up in objection, and the administrator continued.

   Gawain Robards was the first wizard from the panel to stand, ready to address his questions.

   He had a couple of questions for Lucius first, though Draco doubted whether there was much left to ask him after the weeks of inquiries so far. Then he asked both of the unknown wizards several questions about the Ministry during the previous year. Draco gave more attention when he began to ask Professor McGonagall questions about the Battle of Hogwarts.

   ‘I saw Mr Malfoy only twice during the battle,’ said McGonagall, with an air of complete composure. ‘Once, with his wife, searching for their son in the melee that followed the killing of Lord Voldemort’s _snake_.’

   ‘Did Mr Malfoy make any incantations during this time?’

   ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t think any word was spoken by either of them other than _Draco_.’

   At the mention of his name, Draco felt everyone turn to look at him, and he looked down awkwardly, suddenly very interested in his sleeves again.

   ‘And the second time?’ Robards seemed a little disappointed by her answer.

   ‘Sat in the Great Hall, following the defeat of Lord Voldemort, amongst the survivors of the Battle.’

   ‘Did any other Death Eaters remain in the castle after his death?’

   ‘No. They all attempted to flee, or fought and were captured.’

   ‘So you never saw Mr Malfoy make any attempt to fight on behalf of Lord Voldemort, or the Death Eaters?’

   ‘I did not.’

   ‘Thank you, Professor.’

   McGonagall sat down.

   ‘Mr Malfoy,’ continued Robards, and Draco gave a little jump when he realised that he was addressing him, rather than his father. He stood awkwardly, heart pounding against his chest. Finally, he chanced a glance at Harry, who seemed to have chosen that exact moment to look away. Draco swallowed, looking back to Robards.

   ‘Is it true, Mr Malfoy, that during your sixth year of school, He Who Must Not Be Named instructed you to kill Albus Dumbledore?’

   Draco felt his mouth turn dry.

   The red robed wizard beside his father stood abruptly. ‘I’d like to remind Mr Robards that Draco Malfoy is not under investigation, and has been assured immunity.’

   ‘I retract my question,’ said Robards, coolly.

   ‘He sat he’d kill my parents,’ Draco said, and Robards looked to him in surprise. He had clearly not really expected an answer. ‘And all of last year, he used me to control them. He always said that he would kill me if they didn’t do as he ordered. Besides, it’s not like my father could do anything; he didn’t even have a wand for most of last year. The Dark Lord took it.’

   ‘Duress is not an excuse for Death Eater activity,’ said another member of the panel, looking bored. ‘Not when the accused has previously shown long-term commitment and loyalty to the Death Eaters’ cause.’

   ‘If I may - ’

   Draco span around. Harry had stood up.

   ‘ - there is precedent to allow leniency in cases where a subject has proven to have changed their allegiance. I would present the case of Severus Snape, who was once a Death Eater, but who was granted clemency by the Wizengamot after switching sides to spy for Dumbledore.’

   ‘A man who he later killed,’ scoffed one of the panel.

   ‘A misunderstanding for which he has been posthumously exonerated,’ said Harry, sounding more commanding and adult than Draco had ever heard him. ‘You’d do well to remember it.’

   ‘Are you suggesting, Mr Potter, that Mr Malfoy had turned spy against He Who Must Not Be Named?’ said Robards, unable to conceal his laugh.

   ‘No,’ said Harry, unfazed, ‘but I am suggesting that he had changed his allegiance.’

   ‘Oh, I imagine all of the Death Eaters _changed their allegiance_ after his death.’

   ‘I would assert that Lucius had changed his allegiance long before Voldemort’s death.’

   Several of the ministry witches and wizards muttered among themselves. Lucius was staring at Harry with a flabbergasted expression.

   A particularly old member of the panel stood up. ‘May I first present the thanks of all of the Department to Mr Potter for his attendance here today. Mr Potter, would you please provide us with the information that has led you to this conclusion?’

   Draco watched Harry, unsure of whether he ought to sit down, but he remained standing, as much to get a better view as anything.

   Harry cleared his throat. ‘I believe that Lucius, and all of the Malfoys, no longer maintained any allegiance to Voldemort from the moment he threatened Draco during our sixth year. Narcissa - Mrs Malfoy - directly defied Voldemort twice in the months that followed. She went against his orders to seek help from Snape. More importantly, when Voldemort tried to kill me in the woods, she lied to him - as you all know - told him that I was dead. I have spoken on this matter before. This single act may just have saved us all.’

   ‘We are here to investigate Mr Malfoy, not Narcissa Malfoy,’ said Robards, apparently nervous that the hearing was running away from him.

   ‘Really, because you seemed pretty interested in investigating Draco a minute ago?’

   Robards stared at him, a look of anger flashing across his eyes before he could hide it.

   ‘Narcissa saved my life by lying to the Voldemort. Would she really have saved _me_ \- Voldemort’s greatest enemy - at great personal risk, if the family were still Voldemort supporters?’ He continued before Robards could interrupt. ‘In Malfoy Manor, when the snatchers caught me and my friends, the Malfoy family protected me again. All three of them refused to identify me - ’

   Draco watched curiously. Harry had told him that he would not lie, but Draco could not help but think that they seemed to recall that night very differently. From his own recollection, his father had pushed him to identify Harry with considerable urgency.

   ‘ - and Lucius had met me loads of times. He could have recognised me, but he didn’t say anything. And Draco wouldn’t tell them it was me either. And when Bellatrix tried to summon Voldemort with the Dark Mark, Lucius actually grabbed her arm to stop her.’

   Again, Draco was fairly sure that he was leaving out some pretty important details there, but the only other people in the room who had witnessed those events were the three Malfoys, and none of them were inclined to correct him.

   ‘I’m not saying Lucius is a stand-up guy. I’m not saying that he was never a Death Eater. But we’re here to discuss his actions in the last year, and I’m telling you, none of the Malfoys were Voldemort supporters during that time. So that’s that, isn’t it?’

   ‘You seem adamant to defend Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter - a surprise given your past dealings with the family. I must say I’m shocked.’ Robard’s mouth was in such a thin line that his lips seemed to have disappeared. ‘It seems almost… unnatural.’

   ‘Honestly, I just don’t see why the Ministry should waste any more months investigating a known defector, when it could be spending that time out there catching the other _actual_ Death Eaters still on the run. But then the Ministry hasn’t exactly been known for its efficacy recently, has it, Mr Robards?’

   After Harry’s declaration, the deposition was wrapped up pretty quickly. Everybody seemed incredibly keen to move on. The plum-robed wizard on the Ministry panel, who was the only member representing the Wizengamot, stood to announce that given the testimonies of the day, combined with Lucius’ information on the surviving Death Eaters, there would be no further investigation into the Malfoy family, and that the parole conditions placed upon Lucius were to be lifted forthwith.

   The afternoon shot past in a blur. Draco did not get to speak to Harry - he barely got to see him - as he was swept up by his family.

   ‘I have a lot of papers to sign,’ said Lucius, relief flooding his voice. ‘And you have school. You should get back as soon as possible. I don’t want you missing class. We will meet in a couple of weeks, when all the paperwork is done, when things get back to normal. You can come to the Manor one weekend, or we can go somewhere else.’

   Draco nodded, as he had been doing all afternoon. He hugged first his mother, then his father.

   He met Harry’s eyes across the atrium.

   Then he disapparated.

*

Draco walked up through Hogsmeade with a strange numbness in his fingertips. It was not cold, but he pushed his hands into his pocket, pulling his cloak tightly around himself. His world had just righted itself on its axis, and yet he felt more unbalanced than ever.

   He kept turning over and over in his head what Harry had done for him. Had he done it for the right reasons? The situation unsettled him.

   He knew that he should feel elated, but the debt that he suddenly found himself in made him surprisingly uncomfortable.

   ‘Hey! Draco!’

   In spite of everything, the voice made his heart jump.

   He turned around and saw Harry chasing after him up the high street. He had obviously just apparated back too.

   Almost reluctantly, Draco stopped to let him catch up.

   Harry was beaming. ‘Good news, right?’

   ‘Yeah.’

‘It is good news, right?’ he said cautiously.

   Draco rounded on him. ‘I didn’t ask you to do that.’

   The smile slid from Harry’s face. ‘What do you mean?’

   ‘All that crap you spouted in there. You didn’t have to do it.’

   ‘I thought I was helping.’

   ‘I didn’t ask for your help.’

   ‘Are you actually angry with me? You saw how that hearing was going. Robards wanted him locked up! I had to say something.’

   ‘You shouldn’t have lied.’

   ‘I didn’t!’

   ‘Oh come on. That shit about Malfoy Manor? You know my father wanted to hand you to the Dark Lord.’

   ‘Well yeah, but not for the reasons they were saying! He just wanted to protect you guys!’

   ‘You lied.’

   ‘Since when are you so adverse to lying?’

   ‘Since now I owe you one! Since now if I put some foot wrong you can just go and drag down my family all over again! It’s hardly going to look good for my father if you announce that actually you _lied_ for him! That’s worse than if we’d just told the truth.’

   ‘What? You think that if you piss me off I’m gonna go running to the Ministry? Jesus, Draco, give me more credit than that.’

   ‘What if it’s not you? What if Granger or Weasley go spouting off the truth - or if one of the snatchers they caught has a different story?’  

   ‘You think they’re gonna believe someone else over me? It may have escaped your notice, Draco, but I’m Harry Potter. I’m the Chosen One, remember?’

   Draco wanted to keep arguing, but the sly grin on Harry’s face was too much to take. His resolve crumbled. ‘I just… I’m just confused… my head hurts…’ said Draco, closing his eyes and leaning forward to rest his forehead against Harry’s shoulder.

   ‘Come on, it’s alright.’ Harry gave his back a pat but then detached him. ‘We shouldn’t do this here. Prying eyes might have a thing or two to say if we look too friendly after what I did today.’

   ‘Exactly my point,’ Draco muttered.

   ‘Let’s get a drink.’

   ‘Not the Three Broomsticks. Prophet hags drink in there.’

   ‘We’ll go to the Hog's Head. Aberforth doesn’t let Ministry or Prophet ilk into his bar.’

   Draco allowed Harry to steer him towards the inn, powerless to resist his magnetism. He was getting used to the feeling.  


	8. Friends

   ‘One bottle of your finest elf-made wine!’

   Aberforth gave Harry a look of great disdain before slamming down a bottle of unlabelled red onto the bar. ‘Don’t push your luck, Potter.’

   ‘Wine?’ said Draco, raising his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t think that was your sort of thing.’

   ‘Well, we’re celebrating!’ He poured out two glasses with a valiant effort at a smile. ‘Drink up.’

   Draco drained his glass in one motion, and Harry immediately refilled it.

   ‘You want to tell me why you’re really so miserable?’ ventured Harry.

   He shrugged, scratching his fingernails across a stain on his glass. ‘I guess I… I didn’t really have a plan for this. First I thought I’d die in the war. Or that the Dark Lord would win. Or that we’d all end up in Azkaban. I never really thought about what I’d do if I suddenly needed to just…’

   ‘Move on?’ said Harry, with a knowing look.

   Draco nodded.

   ‘Trust me, I get it,’ he said. ‘You think I thought I was getting out of all this alive? You think I had a plan for what to do afterwards? My whole life has been… _Voldemort_. Why do you think I came back to school? It’s the only place that feels _normal_ , the only thing I know other than fighting him.’

   ‘What a sad pair we make,’ said Draco.

   ‘You’re not wrong,’ muttered Aberforth.

   ‘Misery likes company,’ said Harry, raising his glass.

   ‘I’ll drink to that.’

   They clinked their glasses, the sound echoing in the quiet bar, but nobody gave them a second glance. Draco smiled to himself - the Hog’s Head had to be the only place in the world where a Death Eater and the Boy Who Lived could drink side by side in peace.

*

   The castle was almost empty by the time that they had drifted their way back up through the grounds. Night had fallen, and the younger students had been confined to their dormitories, while the eighth years had either settled into the library for the night, or shuffled back to the common room to go over their homework for the next morning.

   Nobody had been prepared for the colossal workload of their NEWTs.

   Draco and Harry navigated the castle with remarkable ease, sliding through the hidden passageways and concealed doors with the familiarity that only the eighth years could now possess.

   When they arrived back at the common room, it appeared that the entire year had been waiting for them.

   Students looked up from their books, bleary eyed.

   ‘Harry! We just got the Evening Prophet!’

   Granger and Weasley had rushed straight over to him. Weasley almost knocked Draco over.

   He stepped aside awkwardly, suddenly intensely aware of all the eyes on him.

   ‘What happened? Did you really say what the Prophet says you said?’

   ‘Oh don’t be silly, Ron - you know the Prophet makes up its articles as it goes along.’

   As the trio stood together, Draco took his chance to duck away from the other eighth years, fingers scratching at the back of his neck in a nervous tic that he had developed many years earlier. He crossed the room quickly, heading to the dormitories, unaware that Harry’s eyes joined the others that were following him.

   He threw himself down onto his bed, face pressed unceremoniously into his pillow. It was an uncomfortable position, but he couldn’t seem to find the strength to move. The weight of everything that had happened that morning, combined with Aberforth’s elf-wine, was crushing down on his body, and Draco was powerless to resist.

   He seemed to be spending more and more time like this - unable to move a muscle. Sometimes it was in the mornings, when he could barely find the strength to leave his bed; other times in the evenings when he had been staring at the blank wall of the common room for so long that it was as though he had forgotten how to take hold of his own body anymore. He knew exactly what the quacks at St Mungo’s would have to say about this.

   His mother had tried to convince him more than once to visit a _mind_ Healer.

   Draco almost snorted into his pillow at the thought, forcing himself to roll onto his back as though to prove the phantom of his mother in his mind wrong.

   He was _fine_.

   He wasn’t fine.

   Draco pushed himself up onto his elbows, running a hand through his hair and rubbing his eyes. He looked at the room though a fluttery of bright stars in his vision, blinking his eyes to push them away. The dormitory still seemed unfamiliar to him, even after all of the nights that he had spent there. It just wasn’t _his_.

   He thought about the pills that Harry had offered to him on the day that Rowle had been caught. So Harry had been to St Mungo’s. Harry too had the nightmares, the panic attacks, even the paranoia. He’d sought help. Maybe it wasn’t such a repellent idea.

   Draco shook his head to himself. What exactly had it gained Harry? A bottle of pills and no end to the nightmares.

   _No,_ he had been right in the first place.

   He wished that he had drunk more at the Hog’s Head. Alcohol was the one thing that made him forget - made him _sleep_.

   Except for the other thing.

   Draco remembered perfectly the last full night of sleep that he had had. It had been the first night back at school, when Harry had fallen asleep at his side in a dizzying cloud of firewhisky.

   He watched the door, waiting for Harry to appear like he had so many times already, but the door stayed closed.

   _Of course,_ Harry was down in the common room with his _real_ friends.

   Draco lied back down, squeezing his eyes shut even though he knew that he would not sleep. He tried to imagine the weight on the other side of the bed, the steady breathing of another sleeping figure, but after a short while he opened his eyes again.

   The room was completely dark, and as empty as ever.

*

Draco moved around school the next day with the distinct air of somebody who ought not be bothered. He was tired, he had a headache, and no matter how irrational it might be, he was more than a little hurt that Harry had not come after him the previous night.

   He had spent most of morning Transfiguration watching Harry laughing with Ron and Hermione, almost falling off his chair when Weasley’s attempt at self-transfiguration left him with no hair at all.

   Alone and moody, Draco had slammed his book shut and ignored the rest of the class’s roaring laughter. He hardly found it amusing - Weasley looked no worse than usual, after all.

   By the end of his second class, a minor altercation with Seamus Finnigan had left him ready to hex the next person who crossed his path.

   With absolutely no interest in dragging himself to double Charms, Draco traipsed back to the eighth year common room, giving a couple of quietly chattering second years a glare so fierce that they took off down the corridor away from him.

   Apparently being an ex-Death-Eater still afforded him some luxuries.

   Still, if anything his head drooped even lower. Once upon a time he would have loved for the other students to fear him. Now it left a dull feeling in the pit of his stomach.

   The common room was, thankfully, empty.

   Still, he bypassed it and made his way straight up to his room, thinking that maybe he could catch a few hours of light sleep.

   And yet, as though they moved like magnets, Draco had no sooner thrown himself down on the bed than Harry’s knock had come at his door.

   ‘What?’ Draco said, not looking up.

   Harry let himself in, standing awkwardly against the door.  

   Draco didn’t need to look up to know that it was him; he could sense his very presence. Usually he would be thinking of some sarcastic comment to throw out, but he didn’t have the energy. Instead, he just said, ‘you managed to detach the limpets, then?’  

   Harry seemed to consider his words for a moment before understanding. ‘They’re my friends,’ said Harry, a little coldly. Perhaps he had struck a nerve.

   Draco gave a derisive laugh, ‘there’s no such thing as _friends_ , Harry. People use you, they take what they can, and then they throw you on the rubbish heap with the rest of their old toys. Ask Pansy. Ask Nott.’

   Harry closed the door and leant his back against it, staring at him with narrowed eyes. ‘I know you’re hurting, Draco, and I know you’re confused, but _don’t_ take it out on me. All I’ve tried to do since we got back here is _help_.’

   ‘I never asked for your help.’

   ‘ _Friends_ don’t have to be asked.’

   ‘Is that what we are, then?’ said Draco, finding a new bout of energy and getting to his feet. ‘Because I don’t remember sticking my tongue down any of my _friends’_ throats. I don’t usually dream about them either.’

   At this, any semblance of anger on Harry’s face vanished, and his lips turned up into a smirk that Draco himself would have been proud of. ‘You’ve dreamt about me?’

   ‘You’re insufferable,’ Draco muttered.

   ‘Answer the question. Have you really had dreams about me?’

   ‘Have _you,_ about _me_?’ Draco retorted.

   ‘I asked first.’

   ‘Yeah, I’ve had loads of dreams,’ Draco said, with mock airiness. ‘Every night I dream about all the jinxes I could use to make your stupid fucked up hair fall out so I don’t have to see you playing with it every two seconds. Oh and don’t get me started on all the times I’ve dreamed about you getting pulled into the lake by the Giant Squid, or squashed by that stupid dragon!’

   Harry closed the space between them until their noses were very close together. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he whispered, his voice hanging in the air between them. ‘I think your dreams are far more interesting than that.’

   ‘You have a high opinion of yourself.’

   ‘Well I am the Chosen One.’

   Draco was either going to have to hit him or kiss him, and he was done with hurting other people.

   Harry seemed taken aback, but only momentarily.

   His back hit the door again with the force of Draco’s bruising kiss.

   Draco enjoyed the moment of surprise. It was a pleasant reminder that this was something he would always have over Harry: something that he was better at. He knew that he was good at this. Sure, maybe Harry had fumbled around with the Weasley girl, but Draco had _experience_ \- _real_ experience. And a reputation.

   It was one of the few reputations that he was actually proud of.

   Draco knew how to make girls fall apart for him, and Blaise had taught him a thing or two about unravelling guys too.

   ‘I’ve never known someone burn so hot and cold as you,’ said Harry when they broke apart for air.

   ‘You haven’t known many Slytherins,’ breathed Draco.

   The earlier tiredness seemed to have vanished upon Harry’s reappearance. His rage hadn’t fully dissipated, but had at least reduced to a light simmer.

   Besides, in his experience a little anger never hurt anyone.

   He caught Harry’s lips again, this time a more languidly, tracing his tongue ever so slowly across Harry’s lower lip before nipping at it with enough intent that Harry let out a small gasp. It was Draco’s turn to smirk. As their embrace grew more heated, Draco had to concentrate on controlling his own body. He moved one hand down between them, palming over Harry through his robes and feeling him start to grow hard almost immediately. Harry’s gasp turned to a lower, more drawn out breath, and he closed his eyes at the touch.

Draco held himself back, wanting to keep this control - wanting to enjoy _this_ \- but there was an urgency in his pounding heart that was unfamiliar and more than a little disturbing.

   He had never wanted anyone like this.

   Every kiss, every fuck in some secret space, had been _technical_. Draco treated this stuff as an art form - one in which he was incredibly learned - and that was why he had always been so good at it. He thought through each careful movement, each well placed touch. Everything from his romance to his sex was as carefully manufactured as the rest of his life.

   But now when he tried to concentrate, something clouded his mind.

   _Fuck, why did I have to go and start_ caring _about Harry Potter?_

Draco pulled away, cursing himself inside and out. ‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he muttered out loud.

   ‘What?’ said Harry, his eyes snapping open with a concern that infuriated him even more. _Even worse: why did Harry Potter ever have to go and start caring about_ me?

   ‘I don’t…’ Draco gestured something at the empty air, as though Harry would understand his meaning. He sighed. ‘I don’t… do this.’

   ‘That’s not what I’ve heard,’ Harry raised his eyebrows, but his voice was kind, almost coaxing Draco to a laugh.

   ‘I mean… I do this, but I don’t do _this_.’

   ‘You’re gonna have to give me something more than that, Draco,’ said Harry, closing his fingers around his shoulder and giving him a soft squeeze.

   ‘I don’t like… _feelings_. I don’t… usually _care_.’

   He instantly felt ashamed of the words, wishing that he could swallow them back down.

   Harry, however, wasn’t looking at him with disgust. The only thing in his eyes was… affection?

   ‘Don’t worry,’ said Harry, moving his hands up to Draco’s neck and running his thumbs gently over the tender skin. Draco wondered whether he could feel him swallowing nervously. ‘I do. I can teach you.’

   He couldn’t remember ever trusting anyone enough to give up control.

   It would be nice, after so very long, to let someone else teach him.

   The one part of Draco that hadn’t changed over these last few months was outraged that he had just lost his one advantage - that the master was about to willingly become the pupil - but the new Draco didn’t care. The furious voice in the back of his head was drowned out by the hundreds at the front that wanted him to melt into Harry’s touch as others had once done for him.

   He nodded, the closest to shy that he had ever been. ‘Okay.’

   For a moment he wanted to allow Harry the moment of happiness that crossed his battle-worn face, but he just couldn’t help himself.

   Keeping his voice as nonchalant as he could, given the circumstances, he added, ‘…but if you start on the love poetry, I’ll hex you where you _really_ don’t want to get hexed.’

   After all, he was still Draco Malfoy.


	9. Battlewounds

   Harry caught him in a kiss, stroking a finger down Draco’s face. ‘Come and sit down,’ he said, catching a few strands of white-blond hair between his fingertips.

   Draco nodded, allowing himself to be steered over to the bed. Harry crouched in front of him, resting his hands gently on his knees.

   ‘Look at me,’ he murmured, catching Draco’s eyes with his own. ‘You need to learn to let someone in, Draco - you have to learn to trust people.’

   ‘People don’t deserve trusting,’ he said, in a shaky voice.

   ‘Some of them do,’ Harry whispered. ‘I know it’s hard. Trust me, I of all people know it’s hard. We’re from the same place, you and me. Opposites, but the same. We had to grow up earlier than other kids - we had to be cynical and we had to learn _not_ to trust people, and people don’t understand why it’s so hard for us to _unlearn_ that.’

   ‘You seem to have done fine,’ Draco said, feeling a little ashamed.

   ‘Then you haven’t been watching me anywhere near as closely as I thought you did all these years,’ said Harry, shaking his head. ‘Almost everyone I’ve ever trusted has left me, or been _taken_ from me. But not quite everyone. You have to find those people who’ll always be there. Build your world around people, not hate and isolation.’

   Draco looked down, fiddling with a stray thread on his robes. He was pretty sure that he had preferred this conversation back when it was a furious gateway to half-hate-sex.

   ‘Do you trust _me_?’ Harry asked, hand moving a little further up his thigh and squeezing gently.

   ‘I… I’m trying.’

   ‘I’ll let you see all of me,’ Harry said softly. ‘I’ll show you that you can trust me.’

   At this, a strange excitement settled over Draco’s chest. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it sounded interesting, and he wanted to see more of Harry. _God_ he wanted to see all of Harry.

   Harry stood up, shrugging off his outer robe and his stupid Gryffindor sweater. His hair was messed up from where he had pulled it over his head. Not that it made much of a difference.

   ‘Here,’ he said, climbing onto the bed in front of Draco and pushing him gently in the chest, so that he fell back against the pillows. Draco propped himself up on his elbows, not wanting to miss a moment of whatever he was about to see. ‘This was where it all started,’ Harry said, lifting his hand to his forehead and pushing back his dark hair.

   Draco stared at the lightning bolt. It was a little faded now, not as angry red as it had been in the years he had spent staring at him, but there could be no missing it.

   ‘When I got this, Voldemort took away everything. He took my parents, but not just that. He took my chance at a childhood filled with magic and love and friends. He took my future - any chance of a normal life at school, in adolescence, the years where I was supposed to be becoming a man my parents would have been proud of.’

   Draco nodded, mouth dry, watching as Harry loosened his tie, edging a little closer on the bed as he did so. He settled his palms down on Draco’s thighs, occupying the space between his casually spread legs, and nodded to the back of his hand.

   ‘This was where that old witch Umbridge scarred me, in our fifth year.’

   ‘ _I must not tell lies_ ,’ Draco read, swallowing hard.

   ‘I never would have thought some pathetic thing like her could scar me as permanently as Voldemort did,’ Harry shook his head in disbelief, ‘but I can’t seem to get rid of them. I have to see them every day - there’s no way to hide them away. Every day I’m reminded of that year. It was… one of the darkest times of my life. I don’t know if I could pick a worst, but fifth year… it was bad.’

   Draco looked almost curious. ‘Really?’

   ‘I suppose you wouldn’t have thought much of it back then. But it was horrible. Nobody… nobody believed me. Only my friends. And even some of them quit. The world’s press was calling me a liar, the Prophet was branding me a lunatic. Everywhere I went, people whispered - stared - shouted. Fudge and Umbridge and all their ilk were trying to make me feel more alone than ever before. It wouldn’t have been so bad - I’m used to people staring, to the whispers… But I was messed up. I’d just - ’

   ‘Harry - ’ Draco started, suddenly not wanting him to have to say this.

   ‘I’d just watched Cedric get murdered right in front of me. I’d just been tortured by the man who slaughtered my parents. Every second I thought I was going to die. And the world didn’t care. They just called me crazy. There were moments… moments where I thought maybe I was.’

   Draco didn’t know how much Harry told his friends. He didn’t know what went on in their common room. But he had the distinct impression that Harry had never exposed the truth like this in front of anyone before. Not in such bare detail.

   But Harry wasn’t done.

   He was unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging it back from his shoulders and down to his elbows. Draco raked his eyes over his chest, but it wasn’t as sensual as he once would have expected it to be. Instead, he caught on every scar, every mark, every battle-wound that time couldn’t heal.

   ‘This is from the bloody horntail,’ Harry said, jerking his head at the white scar on his shoulder. It wasn’t quite as large and jagged as Draco had imagined it in his dreams, but it was very much there. ‘You’d think having a scar from a goddamn dragon would be pretty cool, right? No. All I remember is how Voldemort was supposed to be gone and some fanatic tricked _my_ way into the competition. The danger? That I could deal with. But everyone looking at me like I was a cheat? A _liar_? _Ron_ wouldn’t speak to me for weeks.’

   Draco thought back to his own behaviour in their fourth year and flushed. ‘Harry, I’m sorry. The badges - ’

   ‘Not a big deal,’ Harry rolled his eyes. ‘I would’ve taken the badges with a smile over the rest of the shit I went through that year. An acromantula took a right bite out of my leg in the maze, as well. Fawkes healed most of it, but there’s still a scar.’

   ‘I didn’t know that.’

   ‘This one, you know,’ Harry said, pulling off his shirt completely and extending his arm, exposing the wound from Wormtail’s blade once more. ‘And _here_ , is where Nagini bit me.’

   ‘That _thing_ bit you?’ Draco hated that snake almost as much as he hated the Dark Lord himself. He had certainly watched it kill almost as many people as its master. He shuddered at the memories - the monstrous ways that the Dark Lord had sent the beast after his enemies.

   ‘Yes. When Hermione and I escaped from Godric’s Hollow. One day, when we have a spare moment in our lives, I’ll tell you the whole story of everything that happened that year.’

   _Our lives_.

   Had Harry really linked the two together in his vision of the future? Draco’s heart pounded.

   ‘So this is me,’ said Harry, sitting back on his heels and looking down at Draco with piercing green eyes. ‘No mask, no lies, no secrets. You can trust me, Draco.’

   Slowly, carefully, with dragging hesitation, Draco nodded.

   Harry leaned down over him, one hand rising to stroke over his jaw, and kissed him gently - softly - the kind of kiss that Draco had never liked. And yet now it made warmth spread through his veins from the pairing of their lips. His body relaxed, tension fading from his shoulders and his neck and the throbbing knot in the back of his head that he just could never relieve.

   Was this how it felt? To be kissed by someone who cared?

   ‘Go on,’ he said, half breathless, as Harry moved down to his neck, brushing over his skin with almost imperceptible lips.

   ‘Is this okay?’ said Harry, as his fingers worked at Draco’s shirt, unbuttoning halfway down his chest with steady, calm hands.

   ‘I just said _go on_ , Potter. Get on with it,’ Draco said, watching the way that Harry’s eyes lit up in a crinkled smile.

   It was all going well. Too well.

   But things never seemed to stay _well_ in Draco’s life.

   ‘What?’ he said, slightly self-consciously as Harry sat back, letting go of him as though he had burned him.

   Harry was staring, shaking his head over and over and then -

   ‘ _Oh_. Oh shit,’ Draco said, fumbling at the neck of his shirt to pull it back up over the threading of pale, grey scars that Harry’s exploration had revealed.

   ‘This was me,’ Harry said in a hollow, empty voice. ‘I did this to you.’

   _Sectumsempra._

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Draco, stumbling over the words in his haste to get them out. ‘It wasn’t - ’

   ‘I tore you _apart_ ,’ he interrupted, voice laced with horror.

   ‘It’s not a big deal,’ Draco shook his head, catching Harry’s hands as he tried to look again. His fingers were shaking. ‘Remember what you said about the badges? I would’ve taken these scars with a smile over everything else I went through in sixth year. Jesus Christ, I’d practically forgotten them. It barely ranked.’

   ‘You’re comparing this to those stupid badges? Draco I nearly killed you!’

   ‘You had every right. I was about to use an unforgivable curse. I can’t even think of what I was back then, to use that spell… ’

   ‘No, no I didn’t. Sectumsempra is just as terrible. Besides, that unforgiveable bullshit is a misnomer. Me? I used the torture curse more than once, and the imperius curse, and you know what, I’m not shedding any tears over it. I’ve _forgiven_ myself.’

   ‘You used the cruciatus curse?’ Draco said, dumbfounded.

   ‘Yeah, yeah I did,’ said Harry, through gritted teeth.

   ‘I never knew that.’

   ‘So don’t go acting like you deserved _this_ ,’ said Harry, gesturing at the network of scars that dominated his chest.

   ‘Then I forgive you. If you forgive me for what I tried to do, then I forgive you for this. And now you can’t go about feeling guilty either.’

   They sat in silence, perhaps both of them thinking back to that duel in the bathroom. If he thought hard enough, Draco could still remember the rush of the burst pipes, the colour of his own blood diluting pink in the water, Harry’s pleading horror as he realised what he’d done.

   ‘I think we both need to draw a line,’ Harry said eventually, pulling him out of his reverie. ‘Draw a line under all the things we did _before_. Stop apologising, _and_ stop applauding ourselves,’ he added with a smile, ‘and think only about the future. It’s what we do now that matters.’

   ‘Well I know what I want to do now,’ said Draco, laying back down amongst the pillows and pulling Harry down with him, fingers still laced together from where he had grabbed him earlier.

   They laid together, quiet stretching over them in a calm, reassuring way now, rather than a loaded, awkward anxiety. At some point, Harry negotiated his arm around him, and Draco shifted onto his side, resting his cheek down against Harry’s bare chest and closing his eyes to feel for the rise and fall. If he cleared his mind, focussing hard on the rhythm, he could almost forget.

   Everything.

   ‘Your friends would freak out if they knew what you were doing with me,’ he finally said, lips curling up into a smirk. It had been a cute moment, but Draco Malfoy had never been much good at keeping quiet.

   ‘They know I’ve been spending time with you.’

   ‘Do they know you’ve had your tongue in my mouth?’

   ‘Charming,’ Harry rolled his eyes. ‘But no, I haven’t… shared that detail.’

   ‘Good,’ Draco prodded. ‘My reputation just about survived becoming a Death Eater and betraying the wizarding world, but if it came out that I was having an affair with _Harry Potter_? There’d be no coming back from that.’

   ‘ _Hey_ ,’ Harry said with an expression of mock insult. ‘You could do a lot worse, you know.’

   ‘I suppose. I could get caught in bed with a troll…’

   ‘And there I was, thinking we were having a moment.’

   ‘I don’t have _moments_ ,’ yawned Draco, ‘it’s not the Slytherin way.’

   ‘Are you _sleeping_?’ Harry asked after a few moments, looking down at him in astonishment. ‘It’s the middle of the day. We have classes that we should be at.’

   ‘Shut up,’ Draco groaned, laying his arm across Harry’s stomach and pulling him close to him. ‘The only time I can sleep these days is when you’re here.’

   Harry sighed, lowering a hand into Draco’s hair and stroking through it gently. ‘Alright, but if I get a fail grade in Defence Against the Dark Arts, I’m blaming you.’

   ‘Well I _am_ an ex-Death-Eater. Consider it field-work.’

   ‘You’re hard work alright,’ Harry muttered.

   ‘Besides, you’re the _Chosen One_. Vanquisher of the _Dark Lord_. If you can’t pass DADA, who can?’

   ‘Well it would just about sum up NEWTs,’ Harry said darkly.

   Draco hummed in agreement. ‘Tell me about it. Transfiguration is the worst. If McGonagall sets one more essay - ’

   They settled into a strange rhythm - five minutes of talking, complaining, arguing. Five minutes of dozing, yawning, tracing each other’s forms with tender fingertips. Then back to grumbling about school again.

   It wasn’t the epitome of romance.

   But it worked.


	10. One Short Holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (C/W: sexual content, nightmares/flashbacks)

‘Scum,’ someone muttered, voice clearly audible in the wide entrance hall. The kid crashed hard into his shoulder as he passed, shooting him a look that should surely be reserved for the filth on the bottom of one’s shoe.

   Draco raised his eyebrows, looking after the Gryffindor as he slouched away with his friends. He almost smiled. That kid wouldn’t have been so bold three years ago. Draco had the slight urge to draw his wand and hex him - that’s what he would have done years ago, _before_ Voldemort. But now? He didn’t really have the heart.

   Instead, he just called after him: ‘ _Scum_ , really? You couldn’t be a little more inventive? I’ve been tortured, hassled by the ministry, watched countless people die, and you think _scum_ is the way to get to me?’

   The kid turned, apparently mildly surprised that he’d bothered to respond.

   ‘Who’s scum?’

   Draco turned, watching as Harry crossed the hall, a tottering pile of books stacked under his arm. ‘Me, apparently. I have to say, the name-calling is wearing a little thin.’

   ‘Oi, Peakes,’ called Harry, ‘mind your own business next time, yeah? Harass anyone else and you’re off the team.’

   The kid huffed, then stomped away.

   ‘You alright?’

   ‘I’ll live,’ Draco said sourly. ‘Want a hand with those books?’

   Harry passed him half of them, and they walked back to the dormitory in a comfortable silence.

   ‘I’ve been in the library all morning,’ said Harry once they were over the threshold, and he dropped the books onto one of the low tables with a _crash_. ‘Have you _looked_ at Flitwick’s latest essay?’

   ‘Unfortunately not. I’m still trying to finish my last Arithmancy assignment. It’s a nightmare.’

   ‘Wanna study group?’ said Harry, with a fun smile.

   ‘You make homework sound like an afternoon treat,’ Draco rolled his eyes. ‘But I suppose it wouldn’t be too terrible.’

   They worked for a while, mostly alone in the common room, Harry edging closer and closer until he was half on Draco’s chair, resting his chin on his shoulder and looking down at his Arithmancy charts.

   ‘Distracting,’ Draco said after a minute, not looking up.

   ‘You’re really smart,’ said Harry.

   ‘It looks more difficult than it is.’ After he said it, he decided he should have kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t… disagreeable, for Harry to think he was clever.

   ‘Alright, Harry?’ a pointed voice said.

   They both looked up, and Draco sprang away from him as though he’d turned red hot. It was too late, he was sure - the damage had been done. Weasley and Granger looked down at them, one with a look of mild disgust and the other with probing, nosy eyes.

   ‘We’re here. To study,’ Weasley added, giving Draco a dirty look.

   ‘I’ll go,’ he shrugged, moving to stand, but to his surprise, Harry caught his wrist. He didn’t let go, either, fingers working down to squeeze the back of his hand.

   ‘I’m working with Draco,’ he said calmly, ‘you guys want to join?’

   ‘No, I don’t think we do.’

   ‘Oh don’t be silly, Ron,’ sighed Granger, pushing him down into one of the seats opposite. ‘Good afternoon, Mal- _Draco_ ,’ she said, a little tersely but with an admirable attempt at a smile.

   ‘Alright?’ Draco nodded at her, looking back to his book. It didn’t escape his notice that Harry still hadn’t let go of his hand.

   ‘So this is… a thing… now?’ said Weasley, looking only at his friend.

   ‘Is that a problem?’ Harry’s voice was light, but there was an underlying tension there.

   ‘Of course it isn’t,’ Granger interrupted before Weasley could open his mouth again. ‘ _Is_ it, Ron?’

   ‘You don’t think it’s weird? He’s a _Death Eater,_ Hermione,’ Weasley whispered as though Harry and Draco wouldn’t be able to hear him. ‘Wait, scratch that, he’s _Malfoy,_ Hermione!’

   ‘Harry is free to see whoever he wants, Ronald.’

   ‘Yes, he is,’ said Harry.

   They both turned to look back at them, then Granger leant forwards. ‘Is that the Arithmancy homework?’

   ‘Oh, yeah,’ Draco said awkwardly.

   ‘Did you notice the contradiction on the ratio charts?’

*

   Life at Hogwarts settled into a strange, though increasingly familiar, rhythm.

   Classes became more manageable with experience, homework less overwhelming. Draco started giving one Occlumency lesson a week, and Harry started sneaking to his room almost every night because he knew it was the only way Draco would sleep.

   Winter seemed to arrive in no time, creeping over the grounds and pouncing before any of them were really expecting it.

   ‘Here,’ said Harry, taking off his cloak and wrapping it around Draco’s shoulders.

   They were sat at their spot by the lake, both practising a complex charm set for homework by Professor Flitwick. Or they were supposed to be practising. Harry kept kissing him, then glancing over his shoulder to check that their position amongst the cluster of trees was firmly hidden from view.

   ‘Where are you going for Christmas?’ Draco asked out of the blue, huddling his cold hands under the cloak, still warm from Harry’s body.

   ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Harry. ‘The Weasleys invited me, but I’m not so sure. Kind of want a quiet Christmas - I think we’ve been busy enough recently. You?’

   Draco shrugged. ‘My parents want me home, of course. I don’t think I want to go either, though.’

   ‘Why?’

   ‘I’m not sure I want to set foot in that Manor ever again,’ said Draco, and he couldn’t hide the chill that ran down his spine, which had nothing to do with the cold breeze. ‘My memories from that place are… how am I ever supposed to just sit at that table and enjoy the roast turkey?’

   ‘We could… stay here,’ Harry suggested quietly. ‘Almost everyone’s going to be gone, first Christmas after the war and all that. We’d have the run of the place.’

   ‘I wonder what we could do with an empty castle?’ Draco mused.

   ‘I can think of a few ideas.’

   There it was. The elephant in the room, so to say. Harry would throw out these innuendoes occasionally, and some nights they’d push things a little further, but it would be a fallacy to call their relationship physical. Since the last time they’d tried, they both seemed to have a little emotional whiplash.

   Draco kept thinking about Harry’s reaction to the scars on his chest. He knew it was stupid, but there was an anxiety now in his stomach every time Harry touched him, like he’d find some flaw that would make him leave forever.

   And the thought of Harry leaving was… unthinkable.

   Harry, who sorted through half of his hate mail and threw it in the common room fire. Harry, who shouted at a group of fourth years who tried to jinx him in a hallway. Harry, who threw his butterbeer over a Prophet reporter who recorded them talking in the Three Broomsticks.

   Harry, who instructed him to breathe _in_ , breathe _out,_ in, out, every time he had a panic attack. Harry, who woke him from his nightmares. Harry, who shared the darkest secrets from the last couple of years with him and made Draco feel, for the first time, like somebody who people could trust.

   Yes, he was well and truly _falling_ for Harry Potter.

   And he was fucking terrified.

   He was terrified of what would happen when everyone else found out, not least the press, who were already having a field day with the fact that they might _speak_ to each other in public. He was terrified of what his own _parents_ would think when they heard. And worst of all, he was terrified of what would happen to his battered heart when Harry realised he’d made a massive mistake.

   He couldn’t watch someone else leave.

   All of these anxieties spilled out one night, in the darkness of Draco’s room, the day before everyone else was leaving for the winter holidays.

   He’d taken something Harry had said the wrong way, he knew, but it was an excuse to unleash every thought, every hint of paranoia, that he had built up over the last few weeks.

   ‘I’m not… I’m not going anywhere, Draco,’ Harry said gently after his diatribe, ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

   ‘You can’t even look at me without reeling,’ Draco muttered, turning onto his side.

   ‘You… what?’ Harry said, confused.

   ‘Since you found those scars you can’t even bear to touch me.’

   ‘What? No, Draco, don’t be stupid,’ he said, looking completely flabbergasted. ‘I didn’t want to touch you again because I didn’t want to _push_ you, I didn’t think you were ready, I - ’

   ‘Well I am,’ he snapped, ‘and I’m a lot less virginal than you so don’t treat me like I’m made of glass, alright?’

   A small smile crept onto Harry’s face. ‘Noted.’

   ‘And while we’re - ’

   He was interrupted by Harry’s kiss, fast and open mouthed and loud in the quiet room. He settled down as Harry turned, moving onto his knees and leaning over him. Harry claimed his mouth again, bruising and unrestrained, and he moved his hands down to the jeans that Draco hadn’t bothered to change out of before collapsing into bed.

   One of Harry’s knees was between his legs as he half-straddled him, and he nudged at Draco’s thighs until he spread them a little, adjusting their position instantly to something more… provocative.

   Harry kissed down the line of his jaw, down his throat, then pulled at the hem of his t-shirt. Draco arched his back off the bed, allowing him to pull it over his head, and then Harry’s lips were over his chest, across the scars there, and he rested his head back, closing his eyes at the sensation.

   It had been so long, so damn long, since he’d felt like this.

   When Harry took him into his mouth, he let out a low groan, reaching down immediately to lace his fingers into his hair. It was exposing, even intimidating, to be with Harry like this. But it felt so good - it felt the kind of _good_ that he’d forgotten even existed.

   And it was better.

   Better with feelings.

   ‘ _Fuck,_ Harry,’ he moaned when he took him particularly deep, and he guided him with his grip on his hair, trying to keep up a rhythm. He let out another stream of explosives as he felt the contact with the back of his throat combined with the smooth curl of his tongue. _Fuck._ He wanted it again, _again_. Harry, though, pulled off, turning his head away.

   ‘Should’ve known you’d be loud,’ he said. ‘You’ll wake the whole dormitory!’

   ‘You should’ve waited a day if you were worried about noise,’ Draco said, frustrated and aching in abandonment. ‘Cast a _muffliato_ charm or something, for fuck’s sake.’

   It wasn’t long after he went back to his work that Draco unravelled, lost in the wet warmth of Harry’s mouth and the sheer power of looking down to see his lips wrapped around him like that. He _did_ make noise, panting Harry’s name over and over until ‘ _fuck’_ through clenched teeth and his world crashed down in a wave of sparks across his eyes. Harry climbed off him, settling back on the bed and breathing pretty heavily himself.

   ‘We shouldn’t have waited that long,’ gasped Draco, wondering why on earth they hadn’t done that a month ago.

   ‘Better communication, next time.’

   Draco nodded, letting his haze run down for a minute before turning to Harry and starting to work over his neglected hardness with his hand.

   ‘You don’t have to…’ Harry started, even though his eyes were dark with a rush of arousal.

   ‘Potter, you’re about to get the blow of your life because trust me, _this_ I’m good at, so sit back and shut up before I change my mind. You don’t get a reputation for nothing.’

   Yes, this he was confident in.

*

   Christmas came and went in a rush, and their time alone together seemed too short.

   Harry had been right - almost nobody had stayed at the castle for Christmas - and they’d been able to wander around almost _openly_ , no longer talking in hushed tones and sneaking around the dormitory in secrecy. They were the only eighth years who had stayed behind.

   Soon enough though, the last day came.

   Draco was woken early, and for a moment he wasn’t sure why, until he felt Harry shift against him. He was gripping his shirt very tightly, and one glance down showed him that Harry looked _bad_. Sweat had split the hair on his forehead, and the scar there seemed more angrily red than usual. His eyes were squeezed shut, brow pulled into a tense brow, and then he heard it.

   ‘ _No, Cedric_ …’

   Draco froze.

   ‘ _Not Sirius too… please not - ’_

His breathing became more frantic, his grasp even more furious, until Draco cracked and shook him, _hard._ ‘Harry, _Harry_ , wake up.’

   He jerked awake with a gasp, flinching automatically away from him.

   ‘Hey, it’s alright,’ said Draco, not trying to touch him but sitting up and illuminating his wand to add light to the soft glow of dawn. ‘You were just dreaming.’

   Harry looked like he had just run marathon, shirt sticking to his chest, lungs inflating and deflating at double speed. After a moment, Draco felt safe enough to rest a hand on his shoulder, stroking it up to work through the hair at the nape of his neck.

   ‘Just a dream,’ he said again.

   A few more moments of wide eyes and shaking hands, and then Harry nodded, swallowing visibly.

   ‘You okay?’ he asked, as Harry settled back down, lying back onto his side and wrapping an arm over Draco’s waist.

   ‘I’m fine,’ said Harry, voice surprisingly level. ‘I’m… I’m fine.’

   Draco wished that he could respond to his own nightmares like this; even now he was more of the run-to-the-bathroom-to-throw-up type, or the get-lost-in-the-flashback-and-think-it’s-real type. Although now that he thought about it, he hadn’t had a dream like that in a while. Nor had Harry, until tonight - not that he’d noticed, anyway.

   He tried to think back to the night before, to anything that might have triggered it, but he came back empty-handed.

   Sometimes, it seemed, these things just happened.

   It was impossible to know whether it would ever really stop forever.

   But, together, things were getting better.


	11. Mail

The year accelerated rapidly after the Christmas holidays were over.

   Hogwarts seemed to have… settled itself.

   Students were so filled with post-holiday-ennui that they were all wrapped up in their own lives, complaining about the sudden increase in homework, and very few of them seemed to find the time to bother Draco anymore.

   Even outside the castle, the press seemed to have laid off. The Prophet was filled with articles about rounding up Death Eaters in Europe, and they didn’t seem to want to mention the Malfoys at all, perhaps loathe to mythologise them as the ‘ones that got away.’ Draco received several letters from his mother, assuring him that life at the Manor was returning to _normal_.

   Draco wasn’t even sure he knew what normal was anymore.

   All he knew was that, for the first time in a long time, he was… happy.

   Happy enough.

   ‘Do you remember that time we were going to duel in first year?’ said Harry, as they wandered past the Trophy Room.

   ‘I was never going to duel you,’ smiled Draco,’ my father would have hit the roof. He told me to stay well away from you from the first day.’

   ‘We had to leg it from Filch when you didn’t show up. We ended up running to the third-floor corridor - you remember when we weren’t allowed there? And that’s how we found where they were hiding the Philosopher’s Stone.’

   They had been doing a lot of this over the last couple of weeks. The more that the two of them moved around the castle together, the more they noticed, the more they felt the need to point out to one another, the more stories they told about their very different times at Hogwarts.

   ‘My Special Award for Services to the School is in there.’

   ‘I was so pissed at that,’ Draco shook his head.

   ‘Angry I got one and you didn’t? Bet your dad loved that,’ Harry said, nudging his shoulder.

   ‘Oh please - I couldn’t care less that you got one, but the fact that _Weasley_ got his name in there? A disgrace.’

   ‘You really do have a problem with my friends, don’t you?’ said Harry, but his tone was good-natured. They’d learned, over their time together, not to argue about certain things.

   ‘Sycophants,’ Draco answered casually, with a slight smirk, ‘clout-chasers who wanted to be friends with the Chosen One.’

   ‘Says the kid who hung out with Crabbe and Goyle,’ Harry rolled his eyes, before his face fell quicker than a stone. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I… I forgot.’

   Crabbe.

   Crabbe who was dead.

   Like so many of the people he’d known.

   ‘It’s fine,’ he said, but he looked down, falling quiet.

   ‘Oh _this_ is where I used to sneak into Hogsmeade. I heard they sealed off all the passages in and out of the school last year.’

   Draco stared at the statue. ‘Yes, they did.’

   ‘You remember in third year? When you saw me in Hogsmeade?’

   Draco laughed. ‘You were half under your invisibility cloak, I’m guessing?’

   ‘Yeah.’

   ‘Wish I’d had that cloak. I wouldn’t have used it for sneaking around. I would have saved it for last year and taken myself away to the darkest corner of the earth to hide under it. Away from him. Although I guess it wouldn’t have fit my parents under there. Wouldn’t have been any good.’

   ‘That was always the problem,’ Harry sighed. ‘Don’t think I didn’t consider it. But people were dying left, right, and centre whether I was there or not. I couldn’t just hide away and let it happen. Besides, the prophecy never would have let me… not in the end.’

   Harry had told Draco the whole, sorry story of the prophecy some time over Christmas. It was one of the few parts of the narrative still shrouded in confusion and secrecy. That was hardly a surprise - Harry himself still barely understood it.

   ‘Do you really believe that?’ Draco asked, stopping a little way down the corridor from the old secret passage. ‘Do you believe that it was all fate? All pre-destined? That you really were the Chosen One? Or do you actually think it could have been Longbottom?’

   Harry shrugged. ‘I have no idea. It’s all beyond me. All I know is that Voldemort believed it, and that’s what mattered. That’s what changed everything… for me, for Snape, for my parents…’

   ‘I’m sorry you lost them,’ Draco said quietly. ‘All those years I mocked you, threw around their names like it was nothing… I’m sorry. I didn’t realise… not until sixth year… I didn’t realise what it meant. What it would be like. I was destroyed, paralysed with fear at the mere idea of losing my parents. I still am… the thought of my father ending up back in Azkaban was unbearable. I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for what you did at the trial.’

   ‘No, you nearly bit my head off instead.’

   ‘Thank you.’

   ‘It’s cool.’

   To Draco’s surprise, Harry grabbed his hand, pulling him through a half open door to their left. The two of them stumbled into a nondescript classroom, housing nothing but a blackboard and some empty desks. ‘What memory happened in here?’ Draco asked curiously.

   ‘Oh, no memory,’ said Harry, ‘I just wanted to get away from prying eyes for a moment.’

   A small smile crept onto Draco’s lips. ‘Oh really? And why’s that, Potter?’

   Harry pushed him gently to the nearest wall, claiming his lips in a kiss. He trailed one hand to his waist, the other cupping his neck, tilting Draco’s head to the side so that he could kiss a line down his jaw, down his neck, lips soft and tender and so damn nice that Draco let out a contented sigh.

   ‘Oops, sorry! Guess someone else had the same idea!’

   Draco and Harry sprung apart as though electrified.

   For a moment, everyone froze, the Ravenclaw couple at the door - maybe fifth or sixth years - staring at the two of them. Slowly but surely, recognition dawned on their faces - the girl’s before the boy’s - and her green eyes turned from playful to devious. ‘We’ll just… find somewhere else,’ she said, looking from one to the other once more before grabbing her boyfriend’s arm. 

   ‘Wait, _wait -’_ Harry began, but Draco caught him, closing his fingers around his wrist.

   ‘It’s too late, Harry,’ he said hollowly, ‘what are you going to do, obliviate them?’

   ‘I don’t… I don’t…’ Harry was looking from him to the door, despair on his face.

   Draco, on the other hand, looked resigned. ‘It was always going to happen eventually,’ he said, voice flat, though his heart was pounding very fast against his chest. He tried his best to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, because he knew that Harry was more worried about what this would mean for _him_ than for himself. He’d hoped that they could survive the rest of the year, maybe, sneaking around. At least in the outside world they would be able to hide it a little easier, away from the gossip channels of Hogwarts, but it wasn’t to be.

   In fairness, he’d thought that it would be Weasley who would let it slip first.

   ‘It’s alright, Harry. It’s not a big deal,’ he lied, shifting his fingers down to his hand rather than his wrist and squeezing reassuringly. ‘At least we won’t have to hide anymore.’

   Harry turned to him, resting his forehead down on Draco’s shoulder as he sighed. ‘Just when you think you might just have a quiet term at Hogwarts…’

   ‘There’s never a quiet term at Hogwarts,’ Draco muttered in reply, trying very hard not to think about the resurgence in hate mail he was surely going to receive in the next few days.

*

The news spread, as it always did around the castle, like wildfire.

   Draco was on the way out of an Arithmancy class when he first heard the whisperings.

   ‘Nah, it can’t be true, Potter wouldn’t,’ a Ravenclaw kid said in the corridor, looking over his shoulder at Draco before turning back to his friends dramatically as though horrified to have been spotted. Draco rolled his eyes, stopping in front of a crowd of Hufflepuff second years who were blocking the end of the hall.

   ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

   ‘It’s _Malfoy_ ,’ one of them whispered.

   ‘Malfoy? Like Malfoy and Potter?’

   ‘Did you _hear_?’

   Draco took a deep breath, summoning his drawl of old, and drew his wand. ‘ _Please_ move, before I have to hex you.’

   They spun around, one of them opening his mouth with a snooty expression before his friend cut across him. ‘Don’t, Danny, he was a _Death Eater_ , remember? I bet he means it.’

   ‘I _bet_ he does,’ said Draco.

   They parted quickly then, and he pushed through, rediscovering a mild level of his old swagger. He was very glad that he’d refused Harry’s earlier offer to meet him outside class - he’d told him curtly that he didn’t need a chaperone - and he found, as he walked away, a renewed sense of independence.

*

   ‘ _Draco Malfoy is a criminal - he’d be better locked up in Azkaban than relocated to hero Harry’s bed._ Says Elizabeth Smart from Cornwall,’ Weasley read, apparently finding much glee in the morning’s magazine.

   ‘False,’ said Draco, leaning across to put some more bacon on his plate, ‘Harry sleeps in _my_ bed.’

   ‘Oh please, we don’t get much sleep,’ Harry rolled his eyes.

   ‘Too much information,’ Ron choked quickly.

   ‘This reminds me of fourth year - all that hate mail I got,’ Hermione mused, looking through the Prophet. ‘Remember?’

   ‘Oh yeah, that was the worst.’

   ‘Be careful with the envelopes,’ she said, ‘people tried sending me curses.’

   ‘I will,’ Draco said, nodding in her direction.

   This was becoming routine now, breakfasts in the Great Hall with Harry, Weasley and Granger. The latter, he was starting to tolerate. Granger, it seemed, was not so different from himself – ambitious, drily witty, intelligent. _Weasley_ , on the other hand, he wasn’t sure he could ever accept.

   He knew the feeling was mutual, but he had the suspicion that Harry had asked his friends to form some kind of protective barrier around him, because they kept offering to walk with him to classes. _Weasley_ and _Granger_. It was like he’d slipped into some alternate reality. A reality even more horrific than the one in which he’d spent the most recent few years of his life.

   It also didn’t escape his attention that Harry clearly thought he couldn’t handle the slightest bit of harassment. Did he really seem that fragile?

   To everyone’s surprise, though, people seemed to be more pissed at _Harry._

‘Fucking traitor,’ one such Gryffindor muttered audibly outside a Transfiguration classroom one morning. ‘Can you believe it? Shacking up with a Malfoy? Do you reckon they were in on it together the whole time?’

   ‘Oh yes, didn’t you know? Harry was a Death Eater all along. Only killed the Dark Lord to get his name in the papers,’ snapped Draco, shaking his head and looking back to his notes.

   ‘Careful, they’ll believe just about anything,’ Weasley said darkly.

   The Prophet in particular seemed to have angled much more for Harry than for Draco, something which Granger lambasted with particular vehemence.

   ‘She holds a grudge,’ Harry told him quietly in the common room that evening.

   ‘Don’t we all,’ said Draco, throwing his copy of the paper into the fire with a look of disdain.

   The other eighth years seemed to have decided that aggressively avoiding them was the best course of action, which was fine by both of them. In fact, it was an improvement. And it wasn’t like either of them were unused to periods of ostracism.

   No longer attempting subtlety, Draco and Harry were curled up on one of the squashy sofas, Draco with the back of his head against Harry’s chest as he read, slotted nearly between his legs. Harry was supposed to be working, but he kept carding his fingers through the hair in front of him, or playing with Draco’s cufflinks.

   ‘What’s this?’ he said, as something fell out of the back of Draco’s book and into his lap.

   ‘Huh? Oh nothing,’ Draco said, making a grab for it, but Harry caught it first.

   He always had been the better seeker.

   ‘Draco…?’

   ‘It’s just a letter,’ he muttered, snatching it out of Harry’s hand.

   ‘It’s stamped with your family seal,’ Harry said gently.

   ‘It’s _nothing_.’

   ‘Draco, it’s a letter from your parents. You haven’t opened it?’

   ‘I don’t want to know what they think,’ he said, swallowing hard and pushing the letter back amongst the pages of the book.

   Harry put his arms around him, speaking close against his ear. ‘They might… they might be okay with it.’

   The derisive laugh that followed from Draco was loud enough to draw Granger and Weasley’s attention. ‘Mother, maybe. But you underestimate my father’s loathing for you.’

   ‘The court thing didn’t help?’

   ‘Unlike the students of this school, my father isn’t fickle. If he hates you, he hates you. If you throw him a bone, he’ll spit it right back in your face. Nothing will change his mind, trust me.’

   ‘Open it, Draco, I’m right here,’ Harry murmured, kissing his temple and resting his chin on his shoulder. ‘If it’s a disaster, we’ll throw it in the fire.’

   ‘We’re already keeping that thing burning single-handedly,’ Draco said, but he did pull the letter back out from the pages, turning it over and over in his hands. ‘You open it,’ he pushed it into Harry’s hand.

   ‘You sure?’ Harry said, examining the Malfoy family crest printed on the back. It was a wrought-iron looking shield, in black and green, with two creeping looking wyverns scaling across it. There was something strangely intimidating about it – something old, something _esteemed_ – that reminded him just how different the Malfoys were to any of the wizards he had ever associated with.

   ‘Yeah, just do it.’

   Harry tore open the letter, taking little care over the expensive parchment, and unfolded the letter.

   It was a very short note, written in quick handwriting – a looping, green script.

   _Dearest Draco,_

_I’m sure your father’s letter will follow mine._

_In these difficult times, know that I love you, and I will always be in your corner._

_Perhaps Potter could come around for tea one afternoon this summer? While your father is at work._

_Take care not to get too distracted during your final terms._

_All my love,_

_Mother_.

   ‘What’s the damage?’ Draco said, tone casual but jaw tense.

   Harry ran his free hand through his blond hair, resting his chin on the crown of his head as he passed him the letter. He reread it as Draco scanned the text.

   ‘Did you get your father’s letter?’ he asked softly.

   Draco shook his head. ‘He probably thought it more apt not to send one.’ His voice was hollow, slightly shaky.

   ‘At least your mother… she’s okay with it,’ said Harry, sliding his arms down to wrap around him again. ‘That’s good, right?’

   Draco nodded, and Harry pretended not to notice as he swiped quickly at a couple of tears that had escaped to his cheeks.

   ‘I’m not so sure about going back to Malfoy Manor, though,’ Harry laughed, trying to lighten the room a little. ‘The last time I was there… wow. It would be a change.’

   ‘Tell me about it,’ sighed Draco, turning in his arms so that he could rest his cheek against his chest instead.

   He’d meant it when he said that he wasn’t sure whether he ever wanted to see the place again. In fact, by the time that this year finished, he didn’t plan on spending his time anywhere from the past. He’d thought about leaving the country once he had his NEWTs, travelling the hidden corners of the world in search of some of the secrets of alchemy. It was the only thing that had got him through the war – the prospect of some kind of future.

   Now, though, he wasn’t so sure.

   He wasn’t sure Harry would agree to go with him.

   And he wasn’t sure he could go without him.


	12. New Beginnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N) This is the last chapter of this fic! I started it so long ago it’s strange that it’s at an end now. Thank you so much to all of you who have read and enjoyed it, even with such a big break in the middle.  
> xx  
> (C/W): References to anxiety attacks, sexual content)

By the time that summer tinged the air, Hogwarts was blanketed in silence.

   The fifth, seventh, and eighth years were locked away deep in the library, or in the dormitories, or in any abandoned classroom that they could find, poring over books and practicing incantations and some even falling victim to frequent, tearful breakdowns.

   It was exam season.

   Draco thought that he had made it through decently thus far.

   Charms had gone well, and he had scraped through a difficult Transfiguration practical. Defence Against the Dark Arts had gone almost perfectly, until he’d had a violent attack of anxiety reading one of the scenarios in his written exam. Not one of his favourite moments of the year. But he’d almost finished his exam by then, and had spent the subsequent evening wrapped up tightly in Harry’s arms. Potions, too, had righted itself by the end of the year. He was pretty confident that he’d received a top grade.

   All that was left now was Arithmancy.

   His last exam was coming up in the afternoon. Any other time, he would have slept in late, but Harry’s final exam, Herbology, was in the morning.

   He walked down with him to the greenhouses, an arm slung around his shoulders as Harry held his waist. They moved around the grounds at ease like this, these days. They’d all but given up on what anyone thought of them. Most people just gave them a wide berth when they were together, and anyone who didn’t? Well, they’d both dealt with worse.

   ‘I can’t fuck this up,’ Harry was muttering to himself, reciting the Latin names for plants as they walked. ‘I _need_ this grade.’

   Harry had, himself, had a little bit of a disaster in Transfiguration, and was now drowning in stress about his auror prospects. No matter how many times Draco pointed out to him that he doubted anyone would bar _Harry Potter_ from the Auror Office, regardless of his grades, his words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

   ‘You’ll be fine,’ Draco murmured, stopping him a little away from the anxious crowd of waiting students. ‘Trust your study,’ he said, kissing him and resting his forehead against his.

   ‘See you in a few hours,’ Harry sighed, arms snaking around him for a closer hug before letting him go. ‘If I don’t make it to the Arithmancy corridor in time – good luck.’

   ‘Just think, in twelve hours we’ll be drunk in the common room, and school will be _done_. No more exams, no more books, just _us_ and the future.’

   Harry smiled.

   They talked more and more about this. The future.

   For a long time, neither of them could be certain that they would have one. Now, with nothing but time ahead of them, they were starting to come to terms with the concept.

   A future.  

*

   ‘Will you still have time for me when you’re a bigshot auror?’ Draco asked, tone coy, as he settled his hands down on Harry’s chest.

   ‘I’ll always make time for you,’ Harry breathed, fingers very tight on Draco’s waist as the blond rolled his hips down rhythmically. ‘ _Fuck_ ,’ he groaned, throwing his head back against the pillow.

   The evening had taken an even better turn than expected. Drink had been replaced with… this.

   Draco leant all the way forwards, the change in angle making Harry arch a little beneath him, and moved his hands to prise Harry’s away from his hips and press them down into the sheets instead. He kissed him, hot and wet and disrupted by their heavy breathing.

   It had taken a long time for Draco to let Harry do this.

   His body was the one thing he guarded ferociously nowadays, the autonomy he’d obsessively maintained throughout his darkest times. Opening that side of himself up… letting Harry have that access… it had cost him so many sleepless nights that they’d even tried the other way first.

   Well _that_ had been a fucking mess. It wasn’t right for either of them.

   Finally, though, they’d found their own pace.

   Compromise.

   That seemed to be the slogan for their relationship.

   So now he let Harry take him so intimately that it thrilled him to his fingertips, but Draco always got to be the one in control. He almost always sat astride Harry, and almost always had his fingers caught in his hands, steering him however he wanted him. It was perfect.

   A perfect compromise.

   ‘Fuck, Dray,’ Harry moaned again.

   ‘Hey, none of that shit, Potter,’ Draco said loudly, completely halting his movement. ‘My name’s Draco. Say it.’

    ‘ _Fuck_ , Draco,’ said Harry, meeting his eyes and holding his gaze for so long that they could have forgotten the position they were in.

   ‘Better,’ Draco muttered, resuming his pace and letting his lips be overtaken instead by the rapid breaths that escaped them as he felt Harry hit all the right places.

   It didn’t take long.

   Draco came first, hard in Harry’s hand, falling forwards again to kiss at his neck, even nipping at the skin with his teeth as he focussed tensely through the moments of twitching sensitivity before Harry followed, Draco’s name chasing around his lips.

   Draco rolled off him, onto his back, breathing heavily and closing his eyes.

   It was moments like these, post-sex haze settled over his brain and no sound in the room except for Harry’s breathing, that he could forget everything. Every memory, every harsh reality, every anxiety about what _could_ happen, was lost in the moment. It was like he existed for this second, only.

   ‘Lemme clean you up,’ said Harry, leaning over to kiss him softly – chastely.

   ‘Just a minute,’ Draco murmured. ‘Just let me enjoy this for one more minute.’

   There was silence, and then –

   ‘I really like that position,’ Harry mused.

   ‘Oh what the _fuck_ , Harry? You always accuse me of ruining the moment, but you’re the one who comes out with shit like that.’

   Harry shrugged. ‘What can I say? You ride me bet-’

   ‘If you say I ride you better than you ride a broomstick or something fucking excruciating like that, we’re over. I’m serious. I will break up with you, right now.’

   Harry fell silent, face tense as he fought his laugh.

   ‘Dick,’ Draco muttered.

   ‘And yet here we are,’ Harry retorted smugly.

   They’d never quite managed to master the romance thing.

   But it still worked.

*

   ‘Seriously?’

   ‘ _Bullshit_.’

   There was nothing quite like the House Cup to bring about an outraged end to the year.

   The Ravenclaw table erupted in cheers, drowning out the protests issuing from all directions, and most _loudly_ from Weasley.

   ‘Looks like neither of us get to have this one,’ Harry murmured, close into Draco’s ear, ignoring the raucous chaos around them.

   ‘You have no idea how little I care,’ Draco shook his head.

   ‘So let’s get out of here,’ Harry whispered.

   Draco raised his eyebrows, glancing around to check that the melee was sufficient to allow them to sneak out unseen.

   Harry grabbed his hand, pulling him along the wall of the hall until they could slip out of one of the small side doors, off into a separate chamber. Draco looked around – he had never been here.

   ‘Through here,’ said Harry, dragging him with him, ‘there’s a way out.’

   Out on the lawn of Hogwarts, the two of them both craned to share a look at the twilight sky, Draco’s hand still caught tightly in Harry’s fingers.

   ‘Can you believe we’re never coming back here?’ Harry asked, turning to look at the castle.

   Draco followed his gaze.

   It looked beautiful – so beautiful – in the lowering light.

   The place held so many memories – the light and the dark – but all Draco could see now was the _good_. He felt… a sadness. Harry was right. It was an unfathomable prospect, the thought that they might never return to these hallowed halls.

   ‘I remember the first time I saw this place,’ Draco sighed.

   ‘Me too.’ Harry hooked his arms around his waist from behind, pulling him back against his chest as they surveyed the castle together.

   ‘Can we go to our place?’ Draco asked.

   ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Harry smiled.

   They wandered over to the lake arm in arm, edging amongst the trees until they found their spot.

   For a long time, neither of them spoke.

   The lake stretched vast and black, reaching out and out until it touched the midnight blue horizon, a perfect line cut across the sky. It rippled gently, bubbling on occasion when the Giant Squid wandered a little too close to the surface. As they watched, a small collection of fireflies flitted lightly over the sheen, bringing with them their glow and a reassuring, ochre warmth.

   ‘I’ll never get over how beautiful this place is,’ Harry sighed.

   Draco nodded, leaning sideways to rest his head down on his shoulder.

   ‘You’re not bad looking either,’ Harry mused.

   Draco snorted a laugh. The cute shit still didn’t sound right coming from either of them. ‘Thanks.’

   ‘What do you think it’ll be like? Out there?’ Harry nodded at the distance.

   A moment, and then Draco shrugged. ‘Easier. Harder. I feel like on the outside people are too busy to care about anyone else… less gossip, you know? But then again at least journalists can’t get into the grounds here.’

   Harry nodded. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do tomorrow? At the platform?’

   Draco shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I change my mind every five minutes.’

   ‘What do you _want_ to do?’

   ‘I want to go somewhere far away,’ he said, without hesitation, ‘somewhere where the nightmares are just a distant memory, somewhere where I don’t have to wake up and see the same rooms from my dreams every day. I want to go somewhere where people don’t know me – where I can just be Draco, not Draco Malfoy.’

   ‘So do it,’ Harry said softly.

   ‘Can’t, can I?’ he said, looking down and tracing the toe of his shoes across the grass.

   Harry frowned. ‘Why not?’

   ‘Because that would mean leaving you.’

   The words hovered in the air, Harry’s mouth falling open as though to speak but then closing again. Finally, after an elongated pause, he said, ‘you know I’d be here when you got back?’

   ‘What if I get there and I don’t want to come back?’

   ‘I could… I could come with you?’

   Draco laughed. ‘Don’t be stupid.’

   ‘ _What_?’

   ‘Your life is here, Harry. You belong here. You don’t have to run away like me. You’re gonna be an auror and you’re gonna be great. I’ll only drag you down anyway,’ he said softly, shaking his head, ‘maybe I should go after all.’

   ‘Don’t say that kind of thing,’ Harry said quietly. ‘Draco, I…’

   ‘What?’

   ‘I… I love you.’

   If he could choke on air, Draco would have done. ‘You _what?_ ’

   ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Harry muttered, turning on his heel.

   ‘Hey,’ Draco caught his hand, pulling him back. ‘Say it again.’

   Harry met his eyes. Draco loved his eyes – almond-shaped, bright green, always with a vibrant hint of life. ‘Draco…’

   ‘Go on,’ he said, starting to smile.

   ‘I love you.’

   ‘You kept that quiet,’ Draco grinned.

   Harry gave him a shove. ‘ _Well_?’

   He let him suffer for a moment longer. ‘Yeah, alright. I love you too,’ he said finally, almost stumbling as Harry grabbed the front of his robes and pulled him close to kiss him. Draco melted in against him as he always did now, so used to the way that their angles worked together, how they fit around each other. These days he knew Harry like he knew himself. Better, maybe.

   When they broke apart, Harry trailed his hand down his face.

   ‘If you left tomorrow, where would you go?’

   ‘Egypt,’ Draco said automatically. ‘Cairo houses the World Centre for Alchemical Studies. It seems like… like a good place to start.’

   ‘Then let’s do it,’ Harry said softly.

   Draco’s eyes widened. ‘You… what?’

   ‘I’ll come with you.’

   ‘Harry, you can’t.’

   ‘Auror training can wait,’ Harry shrugged. ‘I think I deserve a gap year.’

   ‘Are you serious?’

   He nodded, face breaking into a smile. ‘There’s a lot of sun in Egypt, though, you’ll have to be careful. You’re so pale you’ll burn like fuck.’

   They chided on at each other like this for some time, starting to walk again as night fell properly over the castle. They wandered from the lake to Hagrid’s repaired hut, and down to the mouth of the Forbidden Forest, where Harry started to tell him at last, breath a little shaky, about _that night_. The night it had all ended. The night in the forest.

   After that, and the pain that came with it, they walked to the Quidditch Pitch, wanting to escape that particular memory, then past the Whomping Willow at a considerable distance.

   Finally, when every recollection of the grounds had been exhausted in conversation, they made their way back to the Entrance Hall, fingers interlinking and faces tucked close together as they talked.

   ‘Good evening, Mr Potter. Mr Malfoy.’

   ‘Good evening, Professor McGonagall,’ they both said quickly, still with that rush of nerves at being caught out late by a teacher. Draco thought that it might take quite some time before he could move on from the schema of _school_.

   Up the stairs, and along well-walked paths. Every step, every flagstone, every portrait familiar.  

   ‘Are you ready?’ Harry asked.

   ‘For…?’

   ‘For everything?’

   Draco looked at him, then nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah I am.’

   For the first time, inside, he felt that it was the truth.

*

   Hogsmeade Station was overflowing with life, with the shouts of younger students, running from carriage to carriage and back out onto the platform in a panic because everyone seemed to have left something behind. The eighth years moved among them strangely melancholy – they, more than anyone, had lived through so much at Hogwarts. And now there was no coming back.

   ‘Ron and Hermione have saved us seats,’ said Harry, coming up behind Draco and grabbing his hand.

   Draco, though, was a little distracted. He was watching Blaise Zabini, talking avidly with a group of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. His eyes travelled to Pansy Parkinson, stood amongst her old gang, still the centre of attention as the others listened to what sounded like a lengthy diatribe.

   ‘Come on,’ Harry said gently.

   If you’d told him last summer that by the end of the year, he’d be walking away to his carriage with Potter, Granger, and _Weasley_ , he would have laughed.

   But it was… okay.

   In fact, looking at the people he’d once spent his every hour with, he thought now that it was _better_.

   The more he thought about it, as they strolled to their carriage, Harry sitting down first and letting Draco throw his legs over his lap as he lounged back against the wall with the window, the more he realised that _everything_ was better. Or getting there.

   And better was enough.

   Draco knew that some wounds could never truly heal.  

   But things were looking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we're done!  
> Thank you for reading ^_^


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